GOLDEN  SONGS  OF  THE  GOLDEN  STATE 


GOLDEN    SONGS 

gf   \the 

GOLDEN//  STATE 


by 
E 
WILKINSON 


. 

Copyright 

A.  C  McClurg  &  Co. 
1917 

Published  November,  1917 


W.  F.  HALL  PRINTING  COMPANY,  CHICAGO 


To  L.  J.  M.,  A.  M.  L.  AND  R.  G.  L. 

AND     TO     OTHER     FRIENDS     IN     SANTA     BARBARA     WHO 
TAUGHT    ME    THE   LOVELINESS    OF    CALIFORNIA 


369862 


CONTENTS 


Part  One 

PAGE 

PIONEER  VOICES   .  i 


Part  Two 

VOICES  OF  THE  GREAT  SINGERS 29 

Part  Three 
LIVING  VOICES  ....  .61 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  PREPARING  this  collection  of  verse  for  publi 
cation,  I  have  had  two  purposes :  first,  to  make  an 
interesting  book  —  the  ancient  and  ever-living  pur 
pose  of  all  makers  of  good  literature — and  second, 
to  give  to  all  who  may  desire  it  a  volume  of  poems 
that  sing  and  celebrate  the  traditions,  the  life,  and 
the  natural  beauty  of  one  of  the  greatest  common 
wealths  in  the  union.  The  romance  and  hardship, 
the  gayety  and  the  heroism  of  the  days  of  the  padres 
and  the  later  pioneers,  the  adventurous  dash  and 
flare  of  the  'forty-niners,  the  rich,  golden  health  and 
prosperity  of  all  the  days  that  have  followed  the 
pioneer  period  —  all  these  things  are  most  vivid  and 
colorful  history  and  tradition  and  have  had  no  small 
part  in  creating  for  Calif ornians  that  heritage  of 
naive  and  fierce  affection — belligerent  devotion  to 
their  commonwealth  and  its  life  and  customs  —  by 
which  they  are  known  and  with  which  they  startle 
the  quieter  and  cooler  hearts  of  men  and  women  of 
more  staid  and  sober  states.  All  of  these  things  have 
inspired  California  poets  and  visiting  poets,  as  read 
ers  of  the  following  pages  will  know.  But,  most  of 
all,  I  think,  the  poets  love  California  for  that  unique 
natural  beauty  often  obscured  rather  than  suggested 

ix 


Introduction 


by  the  trite  and  dull  effusions  in  praise  of  it.  Her 
mountain  peaks  chiselled  singly,  clean  and  hard 
against  the  sky,  or  ranged  in  an  august  uneven  line 
of  power  and  beauty;  her  lovable  foothills  sloping 
in  steep  curves  to  the  coast ;  her  mild,  sweet-scented 
valleys  with  their  straitly  confined  orchards  of 
almond,  orange  and  plum,  with  their  crisp  fields  of 
barley  stubble  in  summertime  and  their  riot  of  wild 
mustard  in  the  spring;  her  winding  trails  leading 
always  into  El  Camino  Real  or  into  the  desert 
beyond  the  mountains;  her  gusty  distances  of  desert 
or  sea  shore;  her  forests  born  before  Christ;  her 
hundreds  of  species  of  wild  birds;  her  tawny  sum 
mers  and  green  winters;  her  sharp,  exquisite  lights 
and  shadows  and  keen  colors  —  these  things  no  poet, 
no  lover  of  beauty  can  forget.  Nowhere  else  can 
one  climb  higher  or  plumb  deeper  the  depths  and 
heights  of  varied  beauty. 

Many  songs  of  many  singers  bear  witness  to  this 
beauty.  A  large  anthology  could  be  made  of  the 
poems  that  have  been  written  about  one  flower  — 
the  escholtzia,  or  California  poppy.  It  is  the  duty  of 
the  anthologist  to  choose  the  coins  of  best  metal, 
best  minted  in  this  treasury  of  verbal  expression. 
And  that  is  what  I  have  tried  to  do.  Critics  are  cer 
tain  to  tell  me  that  I  have  left  out  many  poems  just 
as  good  as  many  that  I  have  included,  and  they  will 
be  telling  the  truth.  George  Sterling  has  written 


Introduction  xi 


many  poems  as  good  as  those  that  I  have  chosen,  but 
I  could  not  choose  them  all.  Other  critics  are  sure 
to  blame  me  for  including  poems  with  imperfections 
or  poems  of  a  type  and  kind  not  to  their  taste.  If  I 
might  gently  disarm  such  criticism  I  would  say,  first 
of  all,  that  poems  with  imperfections,  like  people 
with  imperfections,  are  not  necessarily  valueless. 
FAs  we  know  few  perfect  human  beings,  we  know  few 
perfect  poems.  And  just  as  it  sometimes  happens 
that  the  man  or  woman  with  no  vices  is  a  man  or 
woman  with  no  aggressive  virtues,  so  it  sometimes 
happens  that  poems  with  faults  and  flaws  are  so 
vigorously  and  sincerely  written  as  to  be  superior 
to  creations  more  artificial  and  correct.  Such  poems 
—  and  there  are  quite  a  number  of  them  —  are  in 
cluded  in  this  book  because  they  seem  to  me  to 
give  the  real  zest  and  flavor  of  the  scene  or  event 
described,  in  spite  of  their  faults,  of  course,  and  not 
because  of  them.  It  seems  fair,  also,  to  tell  critics 
and  others  who  may  be  interested,  that  I  have  tried 
not  to  be  governed  overmuch  by  personal  taste 
in  the  making  of  this  book.  All  anthologists  are 
tempted  to  be  autocratic.  But  this  is  the  day  of 
democracy.  I  have  included  in  this  book  two  or 
three  poems  —  I  shall  never  tell  which  —  that  I, 
myself,  can  not  read  without  acute  mental  suffering. 
Let  me  tell  why. 

One  evening,  while  I  was  deliberating  about  one 


xii  Introduction 


poem  which  I  dislike,  but  which  has  been  exceed 
ingly  popular,  I  entered  the  public  library  in  New 
york  City.  And  while  I  was  standing  at  the  desk, 
awaiting  my  turn  to  ask  for  much  needed  informa 
tion,  a  quiet,  plainly  dressed,  little  woman  with  tired 
eyes  turned  to  the  attendant  at  the  desk  and  asked 
for  the  very  poem  I  had  in  mind.  "  I  want  to  get  it 
and  copy  it  for  my  sister,"  she  said,  "and  I  don't 
know  what  book  to  find  it  in  and  I  have  looked  and 
looked  ....  I  read  it  a  long  time  ago  and  never 
forgot  it."  (  The  attendant  was  young  and  had  never 
heard  of  the  poem.)  I  told  her  that  I  would  find  it 
for  her  and  I  did.  Very  gratefully  she  thanked  me. 
Then  I  said,  "  Do  you  like  that  poem  very  much?" 
"Oh,  yes;  yes,  indeed,"  she  said  humbly;  "it  is  a 
great  poem  —  a  very  great  poem."  When  I  left  her 
I  copied  it  and  put  it  with  those  for  this  book. 

Perhaps  a  few  readers  will  be  surprised  to  find 
in  this  book  poems  by  poets  who  have  only  visited 
on  the  coast.  In  answer  I  can  only  say  that  I  have 
felt  that  in  a  sense  California  belongs  to  us  all  —  not 
only  to  the  native  sons  and  daughters,  but  to  the 
many  who  have  been  refreshed  and  strengthened 
and  healed  by  sojourning  there.  And  I  have  felt, 
also,  that  all  the  poems  inspired  by  California  belong 
to  California  and  may  rightly  be  used  in  a  book  of 
this  kind.  But  whenever  it  has  been  possible  I  have 
given  the  preference  to  poems  by  western  poets  who 


Introduction  xiii 


have  made  their  reputations  in  the  West  or  who  are 
now  living  there  and  definitely  associated  with  the 
West. 

The  first  poem  in  the  book  is  one  of  the  old  folk 
songs  of  the  days  of  the  padres,  a  dialogue  folksong 
with  much  of  the  naive  spirit  of  childhood  and  play 
in  it.  It  was  always  sung  in  Spanish  in  the  early 
days  but  has  recently  been  translated  into  English 
by  Eleanor  Hague,  who  learned  it  from  Mrs.  Fran- 
cisca  de  la  Guerra  Dibblee  of  Santa  Barbara,  and 
has  included  it  with  a  number  of  other  Spanish 
California  folksongs  in  a  book  which  will  soon  be 
published  by  The  Folklore  Society.  The  second 
poem,  "  The  Song,"  is  taken  from  a  long  poem  called 
"  Juanita,"  written  by  Lauren  E.  Crane  in  the  very 
early  days  of  California  literature  and  published  in 
one  of  the  early  numbers  of  the  Overland  Monthly. 
It  deserves  especial  mention,  for  it  is  most  gracefully 
written  with  every  appearance  of  spontaneity,  and 
yet  keeps  true  to  a  complicated  rhyme  scheme  that 
would  tax  the  skill  of  any  poet.  The  three  long 
lines  in  each  stanza  are  thrice  rhymed,  having  two 
internal  rhymes  and  one  end  rhyme  each.  This 
is  surely  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  effective 
rhymed  lyrics  ever  written  by  an  American,  for  the 
art  disguises  itself  and  the  poem  loses  no  warmth 
and  charm,  and  gains  melody  from  the  rhyming.  I 
saw  it  first  in  that  helpful  book  by  Ella  Sterling 


xiv  Introduction 


Cummins  (Mrs.  Mighels),  The  Story  of  the  Files, 
to  which  book  I  recommend  all  readers  who  wish  to 
know  more  of  many  poets  whose  work  is  found  in 
these  pages.  The  third  poem,  "  The  Days  of  'Forty- 
nine,"  is  an  old  folk  ballad  of  the  days  of  the  gold 
rush,  and  no  California  anthology  is  complete  with 
out  it.  Nobody  knows  who  wrote  it,  and  several 
versions  are  extant,  but,  in  so  far  as  I  know,  all 
have  the  same  chorus, 

For  the  Days  of  Old,  the  Days  of  Gold 
And  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

The  other  poems  included  in  the  collection  seem  to 
me  to  require  no  comment.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  I 
have  tried  to  represent  all  types  and  kinds  of  poetry 
that  have  been  written  in  the  state  by  at  least  one 
selection. 

The  matter  of  classification  has  been  very  diffi 
cult,  for  almost  all  of  the  poems  included  in  the  book 
have  been  written  since  1870  and  almost  all  of  the 
poets  have  lived  in  the  day  and  generation  that  we 
know  or  that  was  known  to  our  mothers  and  fathers, 
and  are  therefore  contemporaries.  Therefore  I  have 
decided  to  name  in  a  group  together  those  poets 
whose  reputations  are  national  and  international, 
Joaquin  Miller,  Ina  Coolbrith,  Edwin  Markham 
and  the  others  called  "  Voices  of  the  Great  Singers  " ; 
and  to  classify  the  others  in  two  groups — "  Pioneer 


Introduction  xv 


Voices" — those  whose  singing  is  done  or  whose 
work  belongs  to  the  period  that  prepared  the  way 
for  the  great  singers  —  and  "Living  Voices" — 
those  who  are  still  singing  or  whose  work  by  its 
type  and  kind  belongs  to  today.  I  very  much  regret 
that  it  is  impossible  to  include  in  this  volume  any 
poems  by  Ambrose  Bierce,  who  should  be  one  of  the 
"  Pioneer  Voices."  He  was  —  or  is  —  the  pioneer  lit 
erary  critic  of  the  coast,  the  first  to  insist  on  the  intel 
lectual  values  in  literature  as  opposed  to  the  purely 
sentimental  values,  and  he  has  done  much  to  influence 
the  younger  Calif ornians  of  today  and  even  the  great 
singers.  I  can  best  describe  him  in  the  words  of 
Bailey  Millard,  himself  a  clever  California  critic. 
Writing  in  the  Bookman,  Mr.  Millard  says  of  Am 
brose  Bierce :  "  He  revered  nobody's  opinion  but  his 
own,  and  in  this  idea  he  was  upheld  by  a  flattering 
literary  coterie  who  acknowledged  him  as  master. 
These  constituted  an  esoteric  cult  whose  adulation 
Bierce  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course.  They  laid 
their  literary  work  before  him,  rejoiced  in  his  praise, 
however  stinted,  and  received  his  harshest  criticism 
without  a  murmur For  technically  his  pen 
craft  was  of  the  purest,  as  is  shown  on  nearly  every 
page.  He  prided  himself  on  being  ruled  wholly  by 
intellect,  never  by  emotion." 

Robert  Cameron  Rogers  is  classified  with  "  Living 
Voices,"  although  he  died  several  years  ago.     He 


xvi  Introduction 


belonged  rather  more  to  the  present  generation  than 
to  the  pioneers,  and  would  not  be  a  very  old  man  if 
he  were  living  today. 

Special  attention  should  be  called  to  the  fact  that 
five  poems  included  in  this  volume  are  taken  from 
The  Stanford  Book  of  Verse,  a  college  anthology  of 
unusual  merit  published  last  year  by  The  English 
Club  of  Stanford  University-.  They  are  the  poems 
by  Marjorie  Charles  Driscoll,  Dare  Stark,  Maxwell 
Anderson,  James  Leo  Duff,  and  Geroid  Robinson. 

Many  poems  have  been  taken  from  the  files  of 
the  Overland  Monthly,  a  magazine  with  a  glorious 
history  and  many  great  names  to  its  credit.  Many 
others  have  been  printed  for  the  first  time  in  Sunset, 
which  is  now  the  best  known  of  western  magazines. 
Others  —  several  of  the  most  finished  and  crafts- 
manlike  poems  —  have  been  taken  from  that  bright 
little  magazine  edited  by  Gelett  Burgess  and  called 
the  Lark,  one  of  the  gayest  and  wittiest  of  Ameri 
can  magazines  and  of  great  reputation,  although  its 
history  was  only  two  years  long.  In  that  magazine 
Gelett  Burgess  made  the  "  purple  cow  "  famous.  A 
number  of  excellent  poems  also  have  been  printed 
for  the  first  time  in  the  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 
which,  under  the  editorship  of  Samuel  Travers 
Clover,  was  the  best  literary  periodical  in  the  South 
west  for  several  years.  And  Poetry,  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  although  it  is  published  in  Chicago,  has  pub- 


Introduction 


XVll 


lished  some  of  the  best  poems  about  California 
included  in  the  section  called  "Living  Voices." 
Other  periodicals  and  publishers  will  find  that  I  have 
given  them  due  credit  for  poems  used  from  their 
files  in  the  pages  directly  following. 

It  remains  only  to  thank  those  who  have  read 
this  introduction  for  the  interest  which  has  carried 
them  thus  far  and  to  hope  that  they  may  find  pleasure 
in  the  reading  of  the  pages  that  are  to  follow.  This 
book  is  not  the  only  California  Anthology.  Read 
ers  who  are  interested  in  the  literature  of  the  Golden 
State  will  wish  to  read  also  the  collections  of  verse 
compiled  by  Oscar  Schuck,  Edmond  Russell,  and 
Augustin  Macdonald.  They  will  find  poems  in  those 
books  which  I  have  not  included  in  mine.  And  they 
will  find  poems  in  mine  which  are  not  in  the  others. 
To  their  kindly  attention  and  interest  I  commend 
this  collection  of  representative  California  poems. 

MARGUERITE  WILKINSON. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  thanks  of  the  compiler  of  this  collection  of 
poems  are  due  to  the  following  publishers  and  pro 
prietors  of  material  used  in  this  book,  for  their  kind 
permission  to  reprint  it. 

To  A.  M.  Robertson  for  "The  Black  Vulture"  from 
The  House  of  Orchids  by  George  Sterling,  and  for  "  The 
Voice  of  the  Dove  "  and  "  The  Last  Days  "  from  Beyond 
the  Breakers  by  George  Sterling,  and  for  "  A  California 
Song  "  and  "  Forest  Couplets  "  from  A  California  Trouba 
dour  by  Clarence  Urmy,  and  for  "  As  I  Came  Down  Mount 
Tamalpais  "  from  A  Vintage  of  Verse  by  Clarence  Urmy, 
and  for  "  Nero  "  from  The  Star  Treader  and  Other  Poems 
by  Clark  Ashton  Smith. 

To  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  "  El  Canelo "  from 
The  Poetical  Works  of  Bayard  Taylor,  for  "  The  Angelus/' 
"  Reveille,"  and  "  What  the  Bullet  Sang  "  from  The  Poet 
ical  Works  of  Bret  Harte,  for  "On  a  Picture  of  Mount 
Shasta  by  Keith"  from  the  Poetical  Works  of  Edward 
Rowland  Sill,  for  "California"  and  "When  the  Grass 
Shall  Cover  Me "  from  Songs  from  the  Golden  Gate  by 
Ina  Coolbrith,  and  for  "  Windy  Morning "  from  A  Lonely 
Flute  by  Odell  Shepard. 

To  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company  for  "  The  Man  with 
the  Hoe  "  and  "  Joy  of  the  Hills  "  from  The  Man  with  the 
Hoe  and  Other  Poems  by  Edwin  Markham  and  for  "  The 
Heart's  Return  "  from  The  Shoes  of  Happiness  by  Edwin 
Markham. 

To  The  Century  Co.  for  "  El  Poniente  "  and  "  St.  John 
of  Nepomuc "  from  The  Night  Court  and  Other  Verses 
by  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell,  and  for  "  The  White  Feet  of 
Atthis  "  by  Henry  Anderson  Lafler. 

xix 


xx  Acknowledgments 


To  Harr  Wagner  Publishing  Company,  publishers  of 
Joaquin  Miller's  Complete  Works,  for  "  In  Yosemite  Val 
ley  "  and  the  short  lyrics  by  Joaquin  Miller  included  in  this 
volume,  and  for  "  To  the  Colorado  Desert "  from  The  Lure 
of  the  Desert  by  Madge  Morris  Wagner,  and  for  "  Night  in 
Camp  "  and  "  Morning  in  Camp  "  from  Songs  from  Puget 
Sea  by  Herbert  Bash  ford. 

To  Small,  Maynard  &  Company  for  "  The  Bed  of  Fleur- 
de-Lys "  from  In  This  Our  World  by  Charlotte  Perkins 
Oilman,  and  for  "  California  of  the  South  "  from  Sea  Drift 
by  Grace  Ellery  Channing. 

To  Little,  Brown  and  Company  for  "  A  Ballad  of  the 
Gold  Country  "  from  Poems  by  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

To  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Company  for  "  Indirection  "  from 
Poems  by  Richard  Realf. 

To  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company  for  "Coyote "  and 
"Presidio  Hill"  from  At  the  Silver  Gate  by  John  Vance 
Cheney. 

To  The  Macmillan  Company  for  "  Let  Us  Go  Home  to 
Paradise  "  from  Calif ornians  by  Robinson  Jeffers. 

To  the  John  Lane  Company  for  "  The  Rosary  "  from  The 
Rosary  and  Other  Poems  by  Robert  Cameron  Rogers. 

To  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "In  the  States"  from 
A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  for 
"  The  Bells  of  San  Gabriel "  from  Poems  of  Charles  War 
ren  Stoddard,  edited  by  Ina  Coolbrith,  and  for  "  Western 
Blood  "  by  Juliet  Wilbur  Thompkins. 

To  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  "  In  the  Valley  "  from  From 
the  Eastern  Sea  by  Yone  Noguchi. 

To  Elder  &  Shepard  for  "  A  Wedding-Day  Gallop  "  from 
Poems  by  Irene  Hardy. 

To  Paul  Elder  &  Co.  for  "To  Paleolithic  Man"  from 
Out  of  Bondage  by  Fanny  Hodges  Newman. 

To  Raphael  Weill  for  "El  Vaquero  "  by  Lucius  Har- 
wood  Foote. 

To  the  Overland  Monthly  and  to  The  J.  B.  Lippincott 
Company  for  "  Evening  "  by  Edward  Pollock. 


Acknowledgments  xxi 


To  The  English  Club  of  Stanford  University  for 
"Youth's  Songs"  by  Maxwell  Anderson,  "Amateurs"  by 
Geroid  Robinson,  "  The  Song  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer  "  by 
Marjorie  Charles  Driscoll,  "Mater  Dolorosa"  by  James 
Leo  Duff,  and  "  Luck "  by  Dare  Stark,  all  these  being 
taken  from  A  Book  of  Stanford  Verse. 

To  Franz  Boas  and  The  Folklore  Society  for  Eleanor 
Hague's  translation  of  "  O  Blanca  Virgen  a  Tu  Ventana !  " 

To  Sunset  Magazine  for  "  The  Years  "  and  "  A  Califor 
nia  Easter  Mass "  by  Charles  K.  Field,  for  "  The  Camp- 
fire  "  by  Margaret  Adelaide  Wilson,  for  "  Song  of  Cradle- 
Making  "  by  Constance  Lindsay  Skinner,  for  "  Wireless  " 
by  Henry  Anderson  Lafler,  for  "  Indirection  "  by  Richard 
Realf,  for  "  El  Dorado:  A  Song"  by  Charles  Mills  Gayley, 
for  "  An  Abalone  Shell "  by  Grace  MacGowan  Cooke. 

To  the  Overland  Monthly  for  "The  Song"  (from 
"Juanita")  by  Lauren  E.  Crane,  for  "My  New  Year's 
Guests  "  by  Rollin  M.  Daggett,  for  "  Night  in  Camp  "  and 
"  Morning  in  Camp "  by  Herbert  Bashford,  for  "  In  the 
Mojave"  by  Charles  F.  Lummis,  for  "Midsummer  East 
and  West"  by  Virna  Woods  and  for  "Evening"  by 
Edward  Pollock. 

To  the  owners  of  the  following  poems,  originally  printed 
in  the  Lark,  "  To  Virginia  "  by  Henry  Atkins,  "  The  Creed 
of  Desire  "  by  Bruce  Porter,  "  A  Song  for  the  New  Year  " 
and  "  Ebb  Tide  at  Noon  "  by  Gelett  Burgess. 

To  Poetry,  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  for  "  St.  John  of 
Nepomuc  "  by  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell,  "  Neither  Spirit  nor 
Bird  "  by  Mary  Austin,  "  Santa  Barbara  Beach  "  by  Ridge- 
ley  Torrence,  "  To  My  Mountain  "  by  Mahdah  Payson,  "  In 
the  Mohave"  by  Patrick  Orr,  "The  Water  Ouzel"  by 
Harriet  Monroe,  and  "  To  the  Summer  Sun  "  by  Marguerite 
Wilkinson. 

To  the  Los  Angeles  Graphic  for  the  series  of  poems 
called  "  In  a  Garden "  by  Pauline  Barrington,  and  for 
"  With  the  Trees  "  by  Marguerite  Wilkinson. 

To  the  Boston  Pilot  for  "  Old  Glory  "  by  Emma  Frances 
Dawson. 


XX11 


Acknowledgments 


To  the  ten-Bosch  Company  for  "The  Trail"  from 
Field  Notes  by  David  Atkins. 

In  every  case  where  it  has  been  possible,  permis 
sion  to  use  poems  has  been  secured  not  only  from  the 
owners  of  copyrights,  but  from  the  authors  of  poems. 
The  following  poems  are  used  by  special  permission 
of  the  poets  who  made  them : 

"  The  Mountain  "  by  Edward  Robeson  Taylor. 
"Bells  of  San  Juan  Capistrano,"  "The  Child  Heart" 
and  "Pescadero  Pebbles"  by  Charles  Keeler. 
"  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  "  by  Charles  Phillips. 
"  In  Tehachapi "  by  David  Starr  Jordan. 
"  In  an  Alameda  Field  "  by  Anna  Catherine  Markham. 
"  Each  in  His  Own  Tongue "  by  William  Herbert  Car- 
ruth. 

'Just  California"  by  John  S.  McGroarty. 

*  When  Zephyrs  Blow  "  by  Samuel  Travers  Clover. 

'  In  Carmel  Bay  "  by  Madge  Clover. 

'  When  Almonds  Bloom  "  by  Milicent  Washburn  Shinn. 

'The  Cauldron"  by  Francis  Walker. 

'  Wind  of  the  South  "  by  Jennie  McBride  Butler. 

'  California  Poppies  "  and  "  California  "  by  Mary  Caro 
lyn  Davies. 

"  Yosemite  Strophes  "  by  Charles  Wharton  Stork. 
"  At  the  Stevenson  Fountain  "  by  Wallace  Irwin. 
"  Gold-of-Ophir  Roses  "  by  Grace  Atherton  Dennen. 

To  the  Youth's  Companion  and  to  Warren  Cheney,  I  am 
indebted  for  the  use  of  "  January,"  and  to  Herbert  Heron 
and  the  Bookman  for  "  To  William  Vaughn  Moody." 


ioneer 


O  BLANCA  VIRGEN  A  TU  VENTANA! 

(A  folksong  of  the  days  of  the  padres,  translated  by 
Eleanor  Hague  from  the  Spanish  as  sung  by  Francisca  de 
la  Guerra  Dibblee  of  Santa  Barbara) 

He.     O  fairest  maiden,  approach  thy  window ! 
Come  to  thy  railing  and  turn  thy  ear, 
While  gentle  breezes  waft  of  my  singing 
The  eternal  echoes  of  thee  to  hear ! 

She.    Vain  are  these  murmurs  of  all  thy  singing; 
The  eternal  echoes  stir  not  my  heart. 
A  nest  my  heart  is,  of  love  and  rapture ; 
I  live  in  a  heaven,  I  live  in  a  heaven  of  love 
apart. 


He.     Then  to  an  eagle  my  life  I'll  alter, 
Up  to  thy  heaven  swift  I  shall  fly. 

She.    Then  to  a  fish  of  the  sea  I'll  change  me, 
Hidden  beneath  the  waves  I'll  lie. 

He.     Within  the  ocean,  I'll  quickly  seek  thee, 
The  waves  will  help  me  to  find  thee  there. 

1 


Golden  Songs  of 


She.    Then  to  a  bird  I'll  turn  my  being, 

My  flight  shall  take  me,  my  flight  shall  take 
me  from  flower  to  flower. 


She.  A  live  oak  I'll  be  amid  the  boulders. 

He.  As  clinging  ivy  I'll  clasp  thee  near. 

She.  As  a  nun,  hood  and  cowl  I'll  be  wearing. 

He.  Saintly  confessor,  thy  voice  I'll  hear. 

She.  Through    convent    portal,    if    thou    shouldst 

enter, 
Dead  thou  wilt  find  me  among  the  flowers. 

He.     Among  the  flowers,  if  dead  I  find  thee, 

To  earth  I'll  turn  me,  to  earth  I'll  turn  me,  and 
mine  thou'lt  be. 


The  Golden  State 


THE  SONG 

(From  "Juanita") 

TO-NIGHT  the  stars  are  flowing  gold; 
The  light  South  wind  is  blowing  cold, 

Esta  es  mi  luchaf 
The  bright,  bent  moon  is  growing  old, 

Escucha! 

Now  test  thy  pride,  and  fearless  prove, 
Now  blest  —  my  bride  —  my  peerless  dove, 

Juanita, 
Come  rest  beside  me  here,  sweet  love, 

Eres  bendita! 

Through  tall  and  silent  trees  there  seems 
To  fall  the  promise  of  fair  dreams. 

Querida! 
How  all  the  starry  white  air  gleams. 

Mi  vida! 

What  dream,  Juanita — fancied  bliss  — 
Could  seem  so  sweet  a  trance  as  this  ? 

Dulcura, 
Or  beam  warm  as  thy  glance  or  kiss  ? 

Alma  pur  a! 


Golden  Songs  of 


What  bliss  to  hold  my  fairy  prize, 
One  kiss !    yon  star-gold,  wary  eyes, 

Que  gloria! 
Saw  this  in  far-old  Paradise, 

Memorial 

But  Eden  held  no  face  like  thine ; 
Nor  creed  in  perfect  grace  like  mine. 

Que  pascion! 
To  read  thy  tender  ways  divine 

Es  mi  adoration! 

Adieu !    I  linger  here  too  long; 
For  you  my  fingers  sweep  too  strong. 

Que  Diosa! 
Be  true  to  singer  and  to  song ! 

Adios!    Hermosa! 

Lauren  E.  Crane. 


"THE  DAYS  OF  'FORTY-NINE" 

You  are  looking  now  on  old  Tom  Moore, 

A  relic  of  bygone  days; 
A  bummer,  too,  they  call  me  now, 

But  what  care  I  for  praise  ? 
For  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore, 

And  oft  I  do  repine, 


The  Golden  State 


For  the  Days  of  Old,  and  the  Days  of  Gold 
And  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

Refrain. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore 

And  oft  do  I  repine 
For  the  Days  of  Old,  the  Days  of  Gold, 

And  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

I  had  comrades  then  who  loved  me  well, 

A  jovial  saucy  crew : 
There  were  some  hard  cases  I  must  confess, 

But  they  all  were  brave  and  true ; 
Who  would  never  flinch,  whate'er  the  pinch, 

Who  never  would  fret  nor  whine, 
But  like  good  old  bricks  they  stood  the  kicks 

In  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

Refrain. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore,  etc. 

There  was  Monte  Pete  —  I'll  ne'er  forget 

The  luck  he  always  had. 
He  would  deal  for  you  both  day  and  night, 

So  long  as  you  had  a  scad. 
He  would  play  you  Draw,  he  would  Ante  sling, 

He  would  go  you  a  hatful  blind  — 


6  Golden  Songs  of 

But  in  a  game  with  Death  Pete  lost  his  breath 
In  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

Refrain. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore,  etc. 

There  was  New  York  Jake  a  butcher  boy, 

That  was  always  a-getting  tight; 
Whenever  Jake  got  on  a  spree, 

He  was  spoiling  for  a  fight. 
One  day  he  ran  against  a  knife 

In  the  hands  of  old  Bob  Cline — 
So  over  Jake  we  held  a  wake 

In  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

Refrain. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore,  etc 

There  was  Rackensack  Jim,  who  could  outroar 

A  buffalo  bull,  you  bet! 
He  would  roar  all  night,  he  would  roar  all  day, 

And  I  b'lieve  he's  a-roaring  yet ! 
One  night  he  fell  in  a  prospect  hole  — 

'Twas  a  roaring  bad  design  — 
For  in  that  hole  he  roared  out  his  soul 

In  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

Refrain. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore,  etc. 


The  Golden  State 


There  was  poor  lame  Ches,  a  hard  old  case 

Who  never  did  repent. 
Ches  never  missed  a  single  meal, 

Nor  he  never  paid  a  cent. 
But  poor  lame  Ches,  like  all  the  rest, 

Did  to  Death  at  last  resign, 
For  all  in  his  bloom  he  went  up  the  flume 

In  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

Refrain. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore,  etc. 

And  now  my  comrades  all  are  gone, 

Not  one  remains  to  toast ; 
They  have  left  me  here  in  my  misery, 

Like  some  poor  wandering  ghost. 
And  as  I  go  from  place  to  place, 

Folks  call  me  a  "  Travelling  Sign/' 
Saying  "  There  goes  Tom  Moore,  a  bummer,  sure, 

From  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine." 

Refrain. 

Oh,  my  heart  is  filled  with  the  days  of  yore, 

And  oft  do  I  repine 
For  the  Days  of  Old,  the  Days  of  Gold, 

And  the  Days  of  'Forty-nine. 

Author  Unknown. 


Golden  Songs  of 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  GOLD  COUNTRY 

DEEP  in  the  hill  the  gold  sand  burned ; 

The  brook  ran  yellow  with  its  gleams; 
Close  by,  the  seekers  slept,  and  turned 

And  tossed  in  restless  dreams. 

At  dawn  they  waked.    In  friendly  cheer 
Their  dreams  they  told,  by  one,  by  one; 

And  each  man  laughed  the  dreams  to  hear, 
But  sighed  when  they  were  done. 

Visions  of  golden  birds  that  flew, 
Of  golden  cloth  piled  fold  on  fold, 

Of  rain  which  shone  and  filtered  through 
The  air  in  showers  of  gold ; 

Visions  of  golden  bells  that  rang, 

Of  golden  chariots  that  rolled, 
Visions  of  girls  that  danced  and  sang, 

With  hair  and  robes  of  gold; 

Visions  of  golden  stairs  that  led 

Down  golden  shafts  of  depths  untold, 

Visions  of  golden  skies  that  shed 
Gold  light  on  seas  of  gold. 


The  Golden  State 


"  Comrades,  your  dreams  have  many  shapes," 
Said  one  who,  thoughtful,  sat  apart : 

"  But  I  six  nights  have  dreamed  of  grapes, 
One  dream  which  fills  my  heart. 

"  A  woman  meets  me  crowned  with  vine ; 

Great  purple  clusters  fill  her  hands ; 
Her  eyes  divinely  smile  and  shine, 

As  beckoning  she  stands. 

"  I  follow  her  a  single  pace ; 

She  vanishes,  like  light  or  sound, 
And  leaves  me  in  a  vine-walled  place, 

Where  grapes  pile  all  the  ground." 

The  comrades  laughed:  "We  know  thee  by 
This  fevered,  drunken  dream  of  thine." 

"  Ha,  ha,"  cried  he,  "  never  have  I 
So  much  as  tasted  wine! 

"  Now  follow  ye  your  luring  shapes 

Of  gold  that  climbs  and  gold  that  shines; 

I  shall  await  my  maid  of  grapes, 
And  plant  her  trees  and  vines." 

All  through  the  hills  the  gold  sand  burned ; 

All  through  the  lands  ran  yellow  streams 
To  right,  to  left,  the  seekers  turned, 

Led  by  the  yellow  gleams. 


10  Golden  Songs  of 

The  ruddy  hills  were  gulfed  and  strained; 

The  rocky  fields  were  torn  and  trenched; 
The  yellow  streams  were  drained  and  drained, 

Until  their  sources  quenched. 

The  gold  came  fast;  the  gold  came  free; 

The  seekers  shouted  as  they  ran, 
"  Now  let  us  turn  aside  and  see 

How  fares  that  husbandman ! " 

"  No  mine  as  yet,  my  friends,  to  sell ; 

No  bride  to  show,"  he  smiling  said : 
"  But  here  is  water  from  my  well, 

And  here  is  wheaten  bread." 

"Is  this  thy  tale?"  they  jeering  cried; 

"Who  was  it  followed  luring  shapes? 
And  who  has  won  ?    It  seems  she  lied, 

Jhe  maid  of  purple  grapes ! " 

"  When  years  have  counted  up  to  ten," 

He  answered  gaily,  smiling  still, 
"  Come  back  once  more,  my  merry  men, 

And  you  shall  have  your  fill 

"Of  purple  grapes  and  sparkling  wine, 
And  figs  and  nectarines  like  flames, 

And  sweeter  eyes  than  maid's  shall  shine 
In  welcome  at  your  names." 


The  Golden  State  11 

In  scorn  they  heard;  to  scorn  they  laughed 
The  water  and  the  wheaten  bread; 

"  We'll  wait  until  a  better  draught 
For  thy  bride's  health,"  they  said. 

The  years  ran  fast.    The  seekers  went 
All  up,  all  down  the  golden  lands : 

The  streams  grew  pale;  the  hills  were  spent; 
Slow  ran  the  golden  sands. 

And  men  were  beggars  in  a  day, 

For  swift  to  come  was  swift  to  go; 

What  chance  had  got  chance  flung  away 
On  one  more  chance's  throw. 

And  bleached  and  seamed  and  riven  plains, 
And  tossed  and  tortured  rocks  like  ghosts, 

And  blackened  lines  and  charred  remains, 
And  crumbling  chimney  posts, 

For  leagues  their  ghastly  records  spread 
Of  youth  and  years  and  fortunes  gone, 

Like  graveyards  whose  sad,  living  dead 
Had  hopeless  journeyed  on. 

The  years  had  counted  up  to  ten : 

One  night,  as  it  grew  chill  and  late, 

The  husbandman  marked  beggarmen 
Who  leaned  upon  his  gate. 


12  Golden  Songs  of 

"Ho  here!  good  men,"  he  eager  cried, 
Before  the  wayfarers  could  speak; 

"  This  is  my  vineyard.    Far  and  wide 
For  laborers  I  seek. 

"  This  year  has  doubled  on  last  year; 

The  fruit  breaks  down  my  vines  and  trees ; 
Tarry  and  help  till  wine  runs  clear, 

And  ask  what  price  you  please." 

Purple  and  red,  to  left,  to  right, 

For  miles  the  gorgeous  vintage  blazed ; 

And  all  day  long  and  into  night 
The  vintage  song  was  raised. 

And  wine  ran  free  all  thirst  beyond, 
And  no  hand  stinted  bread  or  meat; 

And  maids  were  gay  and  men  were  fond, 
And  hours  were  swift  and  sweet. 

The  beggarmen  they  worked  with  will; 

Their  hands  were  thin,  and  lithe,  and  strong ; 
Each  day  they  ate  two  good  days'  fill, 

They  had  been  starved  so  long. 

The  vintage  drew  to  end.  New  wine 

From  thousand  casks  was  dripping  slow, 

And  bare  and  yellow  fields  gave  sign 
For  vintagers  to  go. 


The  Golden  State  13 

The  beggarmen  received  their  pay, 

Bright,  yellow  gold, —  twice  their  demand; 

The  master,  as  they  turned  away, 
Held  out  his  brawny  hand, 

And  said :  "  Good  men,  this  time  next  year 

My  vintage  will  be  bigger  still; 
Come  back,  if  chance  should  bring  you  near, 

And  it  should  suit  your  will." 

The  beggars  nodded.     But  at  night 

They  said:  " No  more  we  go  that  way; 

He  did  not  know  us  then ;  he  might 
Upon  another  day!" 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 


MY  NEW  YEAR'S  GUESTS 

(Midnight,  December  31,  1881,  in  Virginia  City.     On 
the  wall  photographs  of  five  hundred  California  pioneers) 

THE  winds  come  cold  from  the  Southward,  with 

incense  of  fir  and  pine, 
And  the  flying  clouds  grow  darker  as  they  halt  and 

fall  in  line. 
The  valleys  that  reach  the  deserts,  the  mountains 

that  greet  the  clouds, 


14  Golden  Songs  of 

Lie  bare  in  the  arms  of  Winter,  which  the  gather 
ing  night  enshrouds. 
The  leafless  sage  on  the  hillside,  the  willows  low 

down  the  stream, 
And  the  sentry  rocks  above  us  have  faded  all  as  a 

dream. 
And  the  fall  of  the  stamp  grows  fainter,  the  voices 

of  night  sing  low, 
And  spelled  from  labor  the  miner  toils  through  the 

drifting  snow. 
As  I  sit  alone  in  my  chamber,  this  last  of  the  dying 

year, 
Dim  shades  of  the  past  surround  me,  and  faint 

through  the  storm  I  hear 
Old  tales  of  the  castles  builded  under  shelving  rock 

and  pine, 

Of  the  bearded  men  and  stalwart,  I  greeted  in  'forty- 
nine: 
The  giants  with  hopes  audacious,  the  giants  with 

iron  limb, 
The  giants  who  journeyed  Westward,   when  the 

trails  were  new  and  dim : 
The  giants  who  felled  the  forests,  made  pathways 

over  the  snows, 
And  planted  the  vine  and  fig-tree  where  the  manza- 

nita  grows ; 
Who  swept  down  the  mountain  gorges,  and  painted 

the  endless  night 


The  Golden  State  15 

With  their  cabins  rudely  fashioned,  and  their  camp 

fires'  ruddy  light; 
Who  builded  great  towns  and  cities,  who  swung 

back  the  Golden  Gate, 
And  hewed  from  a  mighty  ashlar  the  form  of  a 

sovereign  state; 
Who  came  like  a  flood  of  waters  to  a  thirsty  desert 

plain 
'And  where  there  had  been  no  reapers  grew  valleys 

of  golden  grain. 
Nor  wonder  that  this  strange  music  sweeps  in  from 

the  silent  past, 
And  comes  with  the  storm  this  evening  and  blends 

into  strains  with  the  blast ; 
Nor  wonder  that  through  the  darkness  should  enter 

a  spectral  throng, 
And  gather  around  my  table  with  the  old  time  smile 

and  song; 
For  there  on  the  wall  before  me,  in  a  frame  of  gilt 

and  brown, 
With  a  chain  of  years  suspended,  old   faces  are 

looking  down; 
Five  hundred  all  grouped  together  —  five  hundred 

old  Pioneers  — 
Now  list  as  I  raise  the  taper  and  trace  the  steps  of 

the  years; 
Behold  this  face  near  the  center;  we  met  ere  his 

locks  were  gray, 


16  Golden  Songs  of 

His  purse  like  his  heart  was  open ;  he  struggles  for 

bread  today. 
To  this  one  the  fates  were  cruel,  but  he  bore  his 

burden  well, 
And  the  willow  bends  in  sorrow  by  the  wayside 

where  he  fell. 
Great  losses  and  grief  crazed  this  one;  great  riches 

turned  this  one's  head ; 
And  a  faithless  wife  wrecked  this  one — he  lives  but 

were  better  dead. 
Now  closer  the  light  on  this  face;  'twas  wrinkled 

when  we  were  young; 
His  touch  drew  our  footsteps  Westward,  his  name 

was  on  every  tongue. 
Rich  was  he  in  land  and  kindness,  but  the  human 

deluge  came, 
And  left  him  at  last  with  nothing,  but  death  and 

deathless  fame. 
'Twas  a  kindly  hand  that  grouped  them,  these  faces 

of  other  years; 
The  rich  and  the  poor  together, —  the  hopes  and  the 

smiles  and  tears 
Of  some  of  the  fearless  hundreds  who  went  like  the 

knights  of  old, 
The  banner  of  empire  bearing  to  the  land  of  blue 

and  gold. 
For  years  have  I  watched  these  shadows,  as  others 

I  know  have  done, 


The  Golden  State  17 

As  death  touched  their  lips  with  silence,  I  have 

draped  them  one  by  one, 
Till,  seen  where  the  dark-plumed  angel  has  mingled 

here  and  there, 
The  brows  I  have  flecked  with  sable  cloud,  the  living 

everywhere. 
Darker  and  darker  and  darker  these  shadows  will 

yearly  grow 
As  changing  the  seasons  bring  us  the  bud  and  the 

falling  snow; 
And  soon  —  let  me  not  invoke  it !  —  the  final  prayer 

will  be  said, 
And  strangers  will  write  the  record,  "the  last  of 

the  group  is  dead." 

And  then  —  but  why  stand  here  gazing?    A  gather 
ing  storm  in  my  eyes 
Is  mocking  the  weeping  tempest  that  billows  the 

midnight  skies; 
And,  stranger  still,  is  it  fancy?  —  Are  my  senses 

dazed  and  weak  ? 
The  shadowy  lips  are  moving  as  if  they  would  ope 

and  speak, 
And  I  seem  to  hear  low  whispers,  and  catch  the 

echo  of  strains 
That  rose  from  the  golden  gulches,  and  followed  the 

moving  trains, 
The  scent  of  the  sage  and  desert,  the  path  on  the 

rocky  height, 


18  Golden  Songs  of 

The  shallow  graves  by  the  roadside,  all,  all  have 

come  back  tonight ; 
And  the  mildewed  years,  like  stubble,  I  trample 

under  my  feet; 
And  drink  again  at  the  fountain  when  the  wine  of 

life  was  sweet; 
And  I  stand  once  more  exalted,  where  the  white 

pine  frets  the  skies 
And  dream  in  the  winding  canyon  where  early  the 

twilight  dies. 
Now  the  eyes  look  down  in  sadness,  the  pulse  of 

the  year  beats  low ; 
The  storm  has  been  awed  to  silence;  the  muffled 

hands  of  the  snow, 
Like  the  noiseless  feet  of  mourners,  are  spreading 

a  pallid  sheet 
O'er  the  heart  of  dead  December,  and  glazing  the 

shroud  with  sleet. 
Hark!  the  bells  are  chiming  midnight,  the  storm 

bends  its  listening  ear, 
While  the  moon  looks  through  the  cloud  rifts  and 

blesses  the  new-born  year. 
Bar  closely  the  curtained  windows,  shut  the  light 

from  every  pane, 
While  free  from  the  worldly  intrusion  and  curious 

eyes  profane 
I  take  from  its  leathern  casket  a  dented  old  cup  of 

tin, 


The  Golden  State 19 

More  precious  to  me  than  silver,  and  blessing  the 

draught  within, 
I  drink  alone  and  in  silence  to  the  "  Builders  of  the 

West"— 
"Long  life  to  the  hearts  still  beating,  and  peace 

to  the  hearts  at  rest ! " 

Rollin  M.  Daggett. 


EVENING 

THE  air  is  chill,  and  the  day  grows  late, 

And  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate ; 

Phantom  fleets  they  seem  to  me, 

From  a  shoreless  and  unsounded  sea; 

Their  shadowy  spars  and  misted  sails, 

Unshattered,  have  weathered  a  thousand  gales ; 

Slow  wheeling,  lo !  in  squadrons  gray, 

They  part,  and  hasten  along  the  bay; 

Where  the  hills  of  Saucelito  swell, 

Many  in  gloom  may  shelter  well, 

And  others  —  behold  —  unchallenged  pass 

By  the  silent  guns  of  Alcatraz : 

No  greetings  of  thunder  and  flame  exchange 

The  armed  isle  and  the  cruisers  strange. 

Their  meteor  flags,  so  widely  blown, 

Were  blazoned  in  a  land  unknown ; 


20  Golden  Songs  of 

So  charmed  from  war  or  wind  or  tide, 
Along  the  quiet  wave  they  glide. 

What  bear  these  ships  ?  —  what  news,  what  freight 

Do  they  bring  us  through  the  Golden  Gate? 

Sad  echoes  to  words  in  gladness  spoken, 

And  withered  hopes  to  the  poor  heart-broken. 

Oh,  how  many  a  venture  we 

Have  rashly  sent  to  the  shoreless  sea! 

How  many  an  hour  have  you  and  I, 

Sweet  friend,  in  sadness  seen  go  by, 

While  our  eager,  longing  thoughts  were  roving 

Over  the  waste  for  something  loving 

Something  rich  and  chaste  and  kind, 

To  brighten  and  bless  a  lonely  mind ; 

And  only  waited  to  behold 

Ambition's  gems,  affection's  gold, 

Return  as  "  remorse,"  and  "  a  broken  vow  " 

In  such  ships  of  mist  as  I  see  now. 

The  air  is  chill  and  the  day  grows  late 

And  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate, 

Freighted  with  sorrow,  heavy  with  woe ;  — 

But  these  shapes  that  cluster  dark  and  low 

Tomorrow  shall  be  all  a-glow! 

In  the  blaze  of  the  coming  morn  these  mists, 

Whose  weight  my  heart  in  vain  resists, 

Will  brighten,  and  shine  and  soar  to  heaven, 


The  Golden  State  21 

In  thin  white  robes  like  souls  forgiven; 
For  Heaven  is  kind,  and  everything, 
As  well  as  a  winter,  has  a  spring. 
So  praise  to  God !    Who  brings  the  day 
That  shines  our  regrets  and  fears  away ; 
For  the  blessed  morn  I  can  watch  and  wait, 
While  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate, 

Edward  Pollock. 


INDIRECTION 

FAIR  are  the  flowers  and  the  children,  but  their  subtle 
suggestion  is  fairer; 

Rare  is  the  roseburst  of  dawn,  but  the  secret  that 
clasps  it  is  rarer; 

Sweet  the  exultance  of  song,  but  the  strain  that  pre 
cedes  it  is  sweeter; 

And  never  was  poem  yet  writ,  but  the  meaning  out- 
mastered  the  meter. 

Never  a  daisy  that  grows,  but  a  mystery  guideth 

the  growing; 
Never  a  river  that  flows,  but  a  majesty  scepters  the 

flowing; 
Never  a  Shakespeare  that  soared,  but  a  stronger 

than  he  did  enfold  him, 
Nor  ever  a  prophet  foretells,  but  a  mightier  seer 

hath  foretold  him. 


22  Golden  Songs  of 

Back  of  the  canvas  that  throbs,  the  painter  is  hinted 

and  hidden ; 
Into  the  statue  that  breathes,  the  soul  of  the  sculptor 

is  bidden; 
Under  the  joy  that  is  felt,  lie  the  infinite  issues  of 

feeling; 
Crowning  the  glory  revealed  is  the  glory  that  crowns 

the  revealing. 

Great  are  the  symbols  of  being,  but  that  which  is 

symboled  is  greater; 
Vast  the  create  and  beheld,  but  vaster  the  inward 

creator ; 
Back  of  the  sound  broods  the  silence,  back  of  the 

gift  stands  the  giving; 
Back  of  the  hand  that  received  thrill  the  sensitive 

nerves  of  receiving. 

Space  is  as  nothing  to  spirit,  the  deed  is  outdone  by 

the  doing; 
The  heart  of  the  wooer  is  warm,  but  warmer  the 

heart  of  the  wooing; 
And  up  from  the  pits  where  these  shiver  and  up 

from  the  heights  where  those  shine 
Twin  voices  and  shadows  swim  starward,  and  the 

essence  of  life  is  divine. 

Richard  Realf. 


The  Golden  State  23 


EL  CANELO 

• 

Now  saddle  El  Canelo!  the  freshening  wind  of 
morn, 

Down  in  the  flowery  vega,  is  stirring  through  the 
corn; 

The  thin  smoke  of  the  ranches  grows  red  with  com 
ing  day 

And  the  steed  is  fiercely  stamping,  in  haste  to  be 
away. 

My  glossy-limbed  Canelo,  thy  neck  is  curved  in 

pride, 
Thy    slender   ears   pricked    forward,    thy   nostrils 

straining  wide ; 
And  as  thy  quick  neigh  greets  me  and  I  catch  thee 

by  the  mane, 
I'm  off  with  the  winds  of  morning, —  the  chieftain 

of  the  plain! 

I  feel  the  swift  air  whirring  and  see  along  our  track, 

From  the  flinty-paved  sierra,  the  sparks  go  stream 
ing  back ; 

And  I  clutch  my  rifle  closer  as  we  sweep  the  dark 
defile, 

Where  the  red  guerillas  ambush  for  many  a  lonely 
mile. 


24  Golden  Songs  of 

They  reach  not  El  Canelo;  with  the  swiftness  of  a 

dream 
We've  passed  the  bleak  Nevada,  and  San  Fernan- 

do's  stream ; 
But  where,  on  sweeping  gallop,  my  bullet  backward 

sped, 
The  keen-eyed  mountain  vultures  will  wheel  above 

the  dead. 

On!  on,  my  brave  Canelo!  we've  dashed  the  sand 
and  snow 

From  peaks  upholding  heaven,  from  deserts  far 
below, — 

We've  thundered  through  the  forest,  while  the  crack 
ling  branches  rang, 

And  trooping  elks,  affrighted,  from  lair  and  covert 
sprang. 

We've  swum  the  swollen  torrent  —  we've  distanced 
in  the  race 

The  baying  wolves  of  Pinos,  that  panted  with  the 
chase ; 

And  still  thy  mane  streams  backward  at  every  thrill 
ing  bound, 

And  still  thy  treasured  hoof -stroke  beats  with  its 
morning  sound. 

The  seaward  winds  are  wailing  through  Santa 
Barbara's  pines, 


The  Golden  State  25 

And  like  a  sheathless  sabre,  the  far  Pacific  shines; 
Hold  to  thy  speed,  my  arrow,  at  nightfall  thou  shalt 

lave 
Thy  hot  and  smoking  haunches  beneath  its  silver 

wave. 

My  head  upon  thy  shoulder  along  the  sloping  sand, 

We'll  sleep  as  trusty  brothers,  from  out  the  moun 
tain  land; 

The  pines  will  sound  in  answer  to  the  surges  on 
the  shore, 

And  in  our  dreams,  Canelo,  we'll  make  the  journey 
o'er.  Bayard  Taylor. 


EL  VAQUERO 

TINGED  with  the  blood  of  Aztec  lands, 
Sphinx-like  the  tawny  herdsman  stands, 
A  coiled  reata  in  his  hands. 
Devoid  of  hope,  devoid  of  fear, 
Half  brigand  and  half  cavalier, 
This  Helot,  with  imperial  grace, 
Wears  ever  on  his  tawny  face 

A  sad,  defiant  look  of  pain. 
Left  by  the  fierce  iconoclast 
A  living  fragment  of  the  past, — 

Greek  of  the  Greeks  he  must  remain. 

Lucius  Harwood  Foote. 


of  tfje  <§reat  linger* 


CALIFORNIA 

WAS  it  the  sigh  and  shiver  of  the  leaves? 
Was  it  the  murmur  of  the  meadow  brook, 
That  in  and  out  the  reeds  and  water  weeds 
Slipped  silverly,  and  on  their  tremulous  keys 
Uttered  her  many  melodies?     Or  voice 
Of  the  far  sea,  red  with  the  sunset  gold, 
That  sang  within  her  shining  shores,  and  sang 
Within  the  Gate,  that  in  the  sunset  shone 
A  gate  of  fire  against  the  outer  world? 

For  ever  as  I  turned  the  magic  page 

Of  that  old  song  the  old,  blind  singer  sang 

Unto  the  world  when  it  and  song  were  young — » 

The  ripple  of  the  reeds,  or  odorous, 

Soft  sigh  of  leaves  or  voice  of  the  far  sea  — 

M  mystical,  low  murmur,  tremulous 

Upon  the  wind,  came  in  the  musk  of  rose, 

The  salt  breath  of  the  waves,  and  far,  faint  smell 

Of  laurel  up  the  slopes  of  Tamalpais. 

"  Am  I  less  fair,  am  I  less  fair  than  these, 

Daughter  of  far-off  seas? 
Daughter  of  far-off  shores  —  bleak  over-blown 

29 


30  Golden  Songs  of 

With  foam  of  fretful  tides,  with  wail  and  moan 
Of  waves  that  toss  wild  hands,  that  clasp  and  beat 
Wild  desolate  hands  above  the  lonely  sands, 
Printed  no  more  with  pressure  of  their  feet : 
That  chase  no  more  the  light  feet  flying  swift 

Up  golden  sands,  nor  lift 
Foam  fingers  white  unto  their  garments'  hem, 

And  flowing  hair  of  them. 

"For  these  are  dead:    the  fair,  great  queens  are 

dead, 
The  long  hair's  gold  a  dust  the  wind  bloweth 

Wherever  it  may  list; 

The  curved  lips,  that  kissed 
Heroes  and  kings  of  men,  a  dust  that  breath, 
Nor  speech,  nor  laughter,  ever  quickeneth; 

And  all  the  glory  sped 

From  the  large,  marvellous  eyes,  the  light  whereof 
Wrought  wonder  in  their  hearts  —  desire  and  love! 

And  wrought  not  any  good : 
But  strife,  and  curses  of  the  gods,  and  flood, 

And  fire  and  battle-death! 

Am  I  less  fair,  less  fair, 

Because  that  my  hands  bear 
Neither  a  sword,  nor  any  flaming  brand 
To  blacken  and  make  desolate  my  land, 
And  on  my  brows  are  leaves  of  olive  boughs, 

And  in  mine  arms  a  dove? 


The  Golden  State  31 

"  Sea-born  and  goddess,  blossom  of  the  foam, 
Pale  Aphrodite,  shadowy  as  a  mist 

Not  any  sun  hath  kissed ! 

Tawny  of  limb  I  roam, 
The  dusk  of  forests  dark  within  my  hair; 

The  far  Yosemite, 
For  garment  and  for  covering  of  me, 

Wove  the  white  foam  and  mist, 
The  amber  and  the  rose  and  amethyst 
Of  her  wild  fountains  shaken  loose  in  air. 
And  I  am  of  the  hills  and  of  the  sea, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  my  great  hills,  and  calm 
With  calm  of  the  fair  sea,  whose  billowy  gold 
Girdles  the  land  whose  queen  and  love  I  am ! 

Lo !  am  I  less  than  thou, 
That  with  a  sound  of  lyres  and  harp-playing, 

Not  any  voice  doth  sing 
The  beauty  of  mine  eyelids  and  my  breast 
Nor  hymn  in  all  my  fair  and  gracious  ways, 

And  lengths  of  golden  days, 
The  measure  and  the  music  of  my  praise? 

"Ah,  what  indeed  is  this 
Old  land  beyond  the  seas,  that  ye  should  miss 
For  her  the  grace  and  majesty  of  mine? 

Are  not  the  fruit  and  vine 
Fair  on  my  hills,  and  in  my  vales  the  rose  ? 

The  palm-tree  and  the  pine 


32  Golden  Songs  of 

Strike  hands  together  under  the  same  skies 

In  every  wind  that  blows. 

What  clearer  heavens  can  shine 
Above  the  land  whereon  the  shadow  lies 
Of  her  dead  glory  and  her  slaughtered  kings 

And  lost,  evanished  gods? 

Upon  my  fresh  green  sods 
No  king  has  walked  to  curse  and  desolate : 
But  in  the  valley  Freedom  sits  and  sings, 

And  on  the  heights  above; 
Upon  her  brows  the  leaves  of  olive  boughs, 

And  in  her  arms  a  dove ; 
And  the  great  hills  are  pure,  undesecrate, 

White  with  their  snows  untrod ! 
And  mighty  with  the  presence  of  their  God ! 

"  Hearken,  how  many  years 
I  sat  alone,  I  sat  alone  and  heard 

Only  the  silence  stirred 
By  wind  and  leaf,  by  clash  of  grassy  spears, 
And  singing  bird  that  called  to  singing  bird, 

Heard  but  the  savage  tongue 
Of  my  brown,  savage  children,  that  among 
The  hills  and  valleys  chased  the  buck  and  doe, 

And  round  the  wigwam  fires 
Chanted  wild  songs  of  their  wild  savage  sires, 
And  danced  their  wild  weird  dances  to  and  fro, 
And  wrought  their  beaded  robes  of  buffalo. 


The  Golden  State  33 

Day  following  upon  day, 
Saw  but  the  panther  crouched  upon  the  limb, 

Smooth  serpents,  swift  and  slim, 
Slip  through  the  reeds  and  grasses,  and  the  bear 

Crush  through  his  tangled  lair 
Of  chaparral  upon  the  startled  prey! 

"  Listen,  how  I  have  seen 

Flash  of  strange  fires  in  gorge  and  black  ravine; 
Heard  the  sharp  clang  of  steel,  that  came  to  drain 

The  mountain's  golden  vein  — 
And  laughed  and  sang,  and  sang  and  laughed  again, 
Because  that '  Now,'  I  said,  '  I  shall  be  known ! 

I  shall  not  sit  alone; 
But  reach  my  hands  unto  my  sister  lands ! 

And  they,  will  they  not  turn 
Old,  wondering  dim  eyes  to  me,  and  yearn — 

Aye,  they  will  yearn,  in  sooth, 
To  my  glad  beauty  and  my  glad,  fresh  youth ! ' 

"  What  matters  though  the  morn 
Redden  upon  my  singing  fields  of  corn! 
What  matters  though  the  wind's  unresting  feet 

Ripple  the  golden  wheat, 

And  my  vales  run  with  wine, 

And  on  these  hills  of  mine 
The  orchard  boughs  droop  heavy  with  ripe  fruit? 

When  with  nor  song  of  lute 


34  Golden  Songs  of 

Nor  lyre,  doth  any  singer  chant  and  sing 

Me,  in  my  life's  fair  spring: 
The  matin  song  of  me  in  my  young  day? 
But  all  my  lays  and  legends  fade  away 
From  lake  and  mountain  to  the  farther  hem 
Of  sea,  and  there  be  none  to  gather  them. 

"  Lo !  I  have  waited  long ! 
How  longer  yet  must  my  strung  harp  be  dumb 

Ere  its  great  master  come? 
Till  the  fair  singer  comes  to  wake  the  strong, 
Rapt  chords  of  it  unto  the  new,  glad  song! 

Him  a  diviner  speech 

My  song  birds  wait  to  teach: 

The  secrets  of  the  field 

My  blossoms  will  not  yield 

To  other  hands  than  his; 

And  lingering  for  this, 
My  laurels  lend  the  glory  of  their  boughs 

To  crown  no  narrower  brows. 
For  on  his  lips  must  wisdom  sit  with  youth ; 
And  in  his  eyes,  and  on  the  lids  thereof, 

The  light  of  a  great  love  — 

And  on  his  forehead,  truth ! " 

Was  it  the  wind,  or  the  soft  sigh  of  leaves, 
Or  sound  of  singing  waters?    So,  I  looked, 
And  saw  the  silvery  ripples  of  the  brook, 


The  Golden  State  35 

The  fruit  upon  the  hills,  the  waving  trees, 
The  mellow  fields  of  harvest;  saw  the  Gate 
Burn  in  the  sunset :  the  thin-  thread  of  mist, 
Creep  white  across  the  Saucelito  hills; 
Till  the  day  darkened  down  the  ocean  rim, 
The  sunset  purple  slipped  from  Tamalpais, 
And  bay  and  sky  were  bright  with  sudden  stars ! 

Ina  Coolbrith. 


WHEN  THE  GRASS  SHALL  COVER  ME 

WHEN  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Head  to  foot  where  I  am  lying, — 
When  not  any  wind  that  blows, 
Summer-blooms  nor  winter-snows, 
Shall  awake  me  to  your  sighing: 
Close  above  me  as  you  pass, 
You  will  say,  "  How  kind  she  was," 
You  will  say,  "How  true  she  was," 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Holden  close  to  earth's  warm  bosom, — • 

While  I  laugh,  or  weep,  or  sing, 

Nevermore  for  anything, 
You  will  find  in  blade  and  blossom, 

Sweet,  small  voices  odorous, 

Tender  pleaders  in  my  cause, 


36  Golden  Songs  of 

That  shall  speak  me  as  I  was  — 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me ! 
Ah,  beloved,  in  my  sorrow 

Very  patient,  I  can  wait, 

Knowing  that,  or  soon  or  late, 
There  will  dawn  a  clearer  morrow: 

When  your  heart  will  moan:   "Alas! 

Now  I  know  how  true  she  was; 

Now  I  know  how  dear  she  was"  — 

When  the  grass  grows  over  me! 

Ina  Coolbrith. 


THE  ANGELUS 
(Heard  at  the  Mission  Dolores  in  San  Francisco,  1868) 

BELLS  of  the  past,  whose  long  forgotten  music 

Still  fills  the  wide  expanse, 
Tingeing  the  sober  twilight  of  the  present 

With  color  of  romance! 

I  hear  your  call,  and  see  the  sun  descending 

On  rock  and  wave  and  sand, 
As  down  the  coast  the  Mission  voices  blending 

Girdle  the  heathen  land. 


The  Golden  State  37 

Within  the  circle  of  your  incantation 

No  blight  nor  mildew  falls ; 
Nor  fierce  unrest,  nor  lust,  nor  low  ambition 

Passes  those  airy  walls. 

Borne  on  the  swell  of  your  long  waves  receding, 

I  touch  the  farther  Past, — 
I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 

The  sunset  dream,  and  last ! 

Before  me  rise  the  dome-shaped  Mission  towers, 

The  white  Presidio; 
The  swart  commander  in  his  leathern  jerkin, 

The  priest  in  stole  of  snow. 

Once  more  I  see  Portala's  cross  uplifting 

Above  the  setting  sun; 
And  past  the  headland,  northward,  slowly  drifting, 

The  freighted  galleon. 

O  solemn  bells!  whose  consecrated  masses 

Recall  the  faith  of  old  — 
O  tinkling  bells !  that  thrilled  with  twilight  music 

The  spiritual  fold. 

Your  voices  break  and  falter  in  the  darkness, — 
Break,  falter,  and  are  still; 


38  Golden  Songs  of 

And  veiled  and  mystic,  like  the  Host  descending, 
The  sun  sinks  from  the  hill ! 

Bret  Harte. 


THE  REVEILLE 

HARK  !    I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum; 
Lo !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick-alarming  drum, — 
Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come! 

Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick-alarm 
ing  drum. 

"  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel : 

War  is  not  of  life  the  sum; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  are  done?" 
But  the  drum 
Echoed :  "  Come ! 

Death  shall  reap  the  braver  harvest,"  said  the  sol 
emn-sounding  drum. 

"  But  when  won,  the  coming  battle, 

What  of  profit  springs  therefrom? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 


The  Golden  State  39 

Even  greater  ills  become?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "Come, 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yankee- 
answering  drum. 

"  What,  if  'mid  the  cannon's  thunder, 

Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

Better  there  in  death  united  than  in  life  a  recreant, — 
Come!" 

Thus  they  answered  —  hoping,  fearing, 
Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some — 
Till  a  triumph-voice  proclaiming, 
Said :  "  My  chosen  people,  come ! " 
Then  the  drum 
Lo !  was  dumb ; 

For  the  great  heart  of  the  nation,  throbbing,  an 
swered,  "  Lord,  we  come !  " 

Bret  Harte. 


40  Golden  Songs  of 


WHAT  THE  BULLET  SANG 

O  JOY  of  creation, 
To  be! 

0  rapture,  to  fly 
And  be  free ! 

Be  the  battle  lost  or  won, 

Though  its  smoke  shall  hide  the  sun, 

1  shall  find  my  love  —  the  one 

Born  for  me ! 

I  shall  know  him  where  he  stands 

All  alone, 
With  the  power  in  his  hands 

Not  o'erthrown; 
I  shall  know  him  by  his  face, 
By  his  godlike  front  and  grace; 
I  shall  hold  him  for  a  space 

All  my  own ! 

It  is  he — O  my  love! 

So  bold! 
It  is  I  —  all  thy  love 

Foretold ! 

It  is  I  —  O  love,  what  bliss ! 
Dost  thou  answer  to  my  kiss  ? 
O  sweetheart !  what  is  this 

Lieth  there  so  cold? 

Bret  Harte. 


The  Golden  State  41 

BELLS  OF  SAN  GABRIEL 

THINE  was  the  corn  and  the  wine, 

The  blood  of  the  grape  that  nourished; 
The  blossom  and  fruit  of  the  vine 

That  was  heralded  far  away. 
These  were  thy  gifts;  and  thine, 

When  the  vine  and  the  fig-tree  flourished, 
The  promise  of  peace  and  of  glad  increase 

Forever  and  ever  and  aye. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now? 

Answer  me,  O,  I  pray! 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Oil  of  the  olive  was  thine; 

Flood  of  the  wine-press  flowing; 
Blood  o'  the  Christ  was  the  wine  — 

Blood  o'  the  Lamb  that  was  slain. 
Thy  gifts  were  fat  o*  the  kine 

Forever  coming  and  going 
Over  the  hills,  the  thousand  hills, 

Their  lowing  a  soft  refrain. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now  ? 

Answer  me,  once  again! 


42  Golden  Songs  of 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel!  rang  Gabriel! 

In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Seed  o'  the  corn  was  thine  — 

Body  of  Him  thus  broken 
And  mingled  with  blood  o'  the  vine  — 

The  bread  and  the  wine  of  life; 
Out  of  the  good  sunshine 

They  were  given  to  thee  as  a  token — 
The  body  of  Him,  and  the  blood  of  Him, 

When  the  gifts  of  God  were  rife. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now, 

After  the  weary  strife? 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 

In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Where  are  they  now,  O  bells? 

Where  are  the  fruits  o'  the  Mission? 
Garnered,  where  no  one  dwells 

Shepherd  and  flock  are  fled. 
O'er  the  Lord's  vineyard  swells 

The  tide  that  with  fell  perdition 


The, Golden  State  43 

Sounded  their  doom  and  fashioned  their  tomb 

And  buried  them  with  the  dead. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now?  — 

The  answer  is  still  unsaid. 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel!  rang  Gabriel! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Where  are  they  now,  O  tower ! 

The  locusts  and  wild  honey? 
Where  is  the  sacred  dower 

That  the  bride  of  Christ  was  given? 
Gone  to  the  builders  of  power, 

The  misers  and  minters  of  money; 
Gone  for  the  greed  that  is  their  creed  — 

And  these  in  the  land  have  thriven. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now, 

And  wherefore  hast  thou  striven? 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard. 


44  Golden  Songs  of 


IN  THE  STATES 

WITH  half  a  heart  I  wander  here 

As  from  an  age  gone  by, 
A  brother  —  yet  though  young  in  years, 

An  elder  brother,  I. 

You  speak  another  tongue  than  mine, 
Though  both  were  English  born. 

I  toward  the  night  of  time  decline, 
You  mount  into  the  morn. 

Youth  shall  grow  great  and  strong  and  free, 

But  age  must  still  decay: 
Tomorrow  for  the  States  —  for  me, 

England  and  Yesterday. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


IN  YOSEMITE  VALLEY* 

SOUND!  sound!  sound! 
O  colossal  walls  as  crown'd 
In  one  eternal  thunder! 

Sound!  sound!  sound! 


'Permission  to  use  the  poems  by  Joaquin  Miller  secured  from 
The  Harr  Wagner  Publishing  Co.,  San  Francisco,  California,  pub 
lishers  of  Joaquin  Miller's  complete  works. 


The  Golden  State  45 

O  ye  oceans  overhead, 
While  we  walk,  subdued  in  wonder, 
In  the  ferns  and  grasses,  under 
And  beside  the  swift  Merced! 

Fret!  fret!  fret! 

Streaming,  sounding  banners,  set 
On  the  giant  granite  castles 
In  the  clouds  and  in  the  snow ! 
But  the  foe  he  comes  not  yet, — 
We  are  loyal,  valiant  vassals, 
And  we  touch  the  trailing  tassels 
Of  the  banners  far  below. 

Surge!  surge!  surge! 
From  the  white  sierra's  verge, 
To  the  very  valley  blossom. 

Surge!  surge!  surge! 
Yet  the  song  bird  builds  a  home, 
And  the  mossy  branches  cross  them, 
And  the  tasseled  tree-tops  toss  them, 
In  the  clouds  of  falling  foam. 

Sweep !  sweep !  sweep ! 
O  ye  heaven-born  and  deep 
In  one  dread,  unbroken  chorus ! 
We  may  wonder  or  may  weep, — 


46  Golden  Songs  of 

We  may  wait  on  God  before  us; 
iWe  may  shout  or  lift  a  hand, — 
We  may  bow  down  or  deplore  us, 
But  may  never  understand. 

Beat!  beat!  beat! 
We  advance  but  would  retreat 
From  this  restless,  broken  breast 
Of  the  earth  in  a  convulsion. 
We  would  rest,  but  dare  not  rest, 
For  the  angel  of  expulsion 
From  this  Paradise  below 
Waves  us  onward  and  —  we  go. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


LYRICS 
(Written  in  London  in  1871) 

COME  to  my  sun  land!    Come  with  me 
To  the  land  I  love ;  where  the  sun  and  sea 
Are  wed  forever :  where  palm  and  pine 
Are  filled  with  singers ;  where  tree  and  vine 
Are  voiced  with  prophets !    O  come,  and  you 
Shall  sing  a  song  with  the  seas  that  swirl 
And  kiss  their  hands  to  the  cold  white  girl, 
To  the  maiden  moon  in  her  mantle  of  blue. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


The  Golden  State  47 

ROOM  !    Room  to  turn  round  in,  to  breathe  and  be 

free, 

And  to  grow  to  be  giant,  to  sail  as  at  sea 
With  the  speed  of  the  wind  on  a  steed  with  his  mane 
To  the  wind,  without  pathway,  or  route,  or  a  rein. 
Room !    Room  to  be  free  where  the  white-bordered 

sea 

Blows  a  kiss  to  a  brother  as  boundless  as  he; 
And  to  east  and  to  west,  to  the  north  and  the  sun, 
Blue  skies  and  brown  grasses  are  welded  as  one, 
And  the  buffalo  come  like  a  cloud  on  the  plain, 
Pouring  on  like  the  tide  of  a  storm-driven  main, 
And  the  lodge  of  the  hunter  to  friend  or  to  foe 
Offers  rest;  and  unquestioned  you  come  or  you  go. 
My  plains  of  America!     Seas  of  wild  lands! 
From  a  land  in  the  seas  in  a  raiment  of  foam, 
That  has  reached  to  a  stranger  the  welcome  of  home, 
I  turn  to  you,  lean  to  you,  lift  you  my  hands. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  MOUNT  SHASTA1 
BY  KEITH* 

Two  craggy  slopes,  sheer  down  on  either  hand, 
Fall  to  a  cleft,  dark  and  confused  with  pines. 

*  Used  by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Houghton 
Mifflin  Company. 


48  Golden  Songs  of 

Out  of  their  sombre  shade  —  one  gleam  of  light  — 
Escaping  toward  us  like  a  hurrying  child, 
Half  laughing,  half  afraid,  a  white  brook  runs. 
The  fancy  tracks  it  back  through  the  thick  gloom 
Of  crowded  trees,  immense,  mysterious 
As  monoliths  of  some  colossal  temple, 
Dusky  with  incense,  chill  with  endless  time: 
Through  their  dim  arches  chants  the  distant  wind, 
Hollow  and  vast,  and  ancient  oracles 
Whisper  and  wait  to  be  interpreted. 
Far  up  the  gorge  denser  and  denser  grows 
The  forest;  columns  lie  with  writhen  roots  in  air, 
And  across  open  glades  the  sunbeams  slant 
To  touch  the  vanishing  wing-tips  of  shy  birds; 
Till  from  a  mist-rolled  valley  soar  the  slopes, 
Blue-hazy,  dense  with  pines  to  the  verge  of  snow, 
Up  into  cloud.     Suddenly  parts  the  cloud, 
And  lo!  in  heaven  —  as  pure  as  very  snow, 
Uplifted  like  a  solitary  world  — 
A  star,  grown  all  at  once  distinct  and  clear, — 
The  white  earth-spirit,  Shasta !    Calm,  alone, 
Silent  it  stands,  cold  in  the  crystal  air, 
White-bosomed  sister  of  the  stainless  dawn, 
With  whom  the  clouds  hold  converse,  and  the  storm 
Rests  there,  and  stills  its  tempest  into  snow. 

Once  —  you  remember  ?  —  we  beheld  that  vision, 
But  busy  days  recalled  us,  and  the  whole 


The  Golden  State  49 

Fades  now  among  my  memories  like  a  dream. 

The  distant  thing  is  all  incredible, 

And  the  dim  past  as  if  it  had  not  been. 

Our  world  flees  from  us ;  only  the  one  point, 

The  unsubstantial  moment,  is  our  own. 

We  are  but  as  the  dead,  save  that  swift  mote 

Of  conscious  life.     Then  the  great  artist  comes, 

Commands  the  chariot  wheels  of  Time  to  stay, 

Summons  the  distant,  as  by  some  austere 

Grand  gesture  of  a  mighty  sorcerer's  wand, 

And  our  whole  world  again  becomes  our  own. 

So  we  escape  the  petty  tyranny 

Of  the  incessant  hour;  pure  thought  evades 

Its  customary  bondage,  and  the  mind 

Is  lifted  up,  watching  the  moon-like  globe. 

How  should  a  man  be  eager  or  perturbed 
Within  this  calm?    How  should  he  greatly  care 
For  reparation,  or  redress  of  wrong, — 
To  scotch  the  liar,  or  spurn  the  fawning  knave, 
Or  heed  the  babble  of  the  ignoble  crew? 
Seest  thou  yon  blur  far  up  the  icy  slope, 
Like  a  man's  footprint  ?    Half  thy  little  town 
Might  hide  there,  or  be  buried  in  what  seems 
From  yonder  cliff  a  curl  of  feathery  snow. 
Still  the  far  peak  would  keep  its  frozen  calm, 
Still  at  the  evening  on  its  pinnacle 
Would  the  one  tender  touch  of  sunset  dwell, 


50  Golden  Songs  of 

And  o'er  it  nightlong  wheel  the  silent  stars. 
So  the  great  globe  rounds  on, —  mountains  and  vales, 
Forests,  waste  stretches  of  gaunt  rock  and  sand, 
Shore,  and  the  swaying  ocean, —  league  on  league ; 
And  blossoms  open,  and  are  sealed  in  frost; 
And  babes  are  born,  and  men  are  laid  to  rest. 
What  is  this  breathing  atom,  that  his  brain 
Should  build  or  purpose  aught  or  aught  desire, 
But  stand  a  moment  in  amaze  and  awe, 
Rapt  on  the  wonderfulness  of  the  world? 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE* 
(Written  after  seeing  Millet's  world-famous  painting) 

BOWED  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 
And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 
A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 
Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox  ? 
Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw? 
Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow  ? 

*  Used  by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Double- 
day,  Page  &  Company. 


The  Golden  State  51 

Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain  ? 

Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power ; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 

Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns 

And  marked  their  ways  upon  the  ancient  deep? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this  — 

More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind 

greed  — 

More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul  — 
More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim! 

Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 

Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades? 

What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 

The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 

Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 

Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop; 

Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 

Plundered,  profaned  and  disinherited, 

Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 

A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 


52  Golden  Songs  of 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape, 

Touch  it  again  with  immortality; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light ; 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream ; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes? 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
How  will  the  future  reckon  with  this  Man? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings  — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is  — 
When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries? 

Edwin  Mark  ham. 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  HILLS  * 

I  RIDE  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride ; 
I  have  found  my  life  and  am  satisfied. 
Onward  I  ride  in  the  blowing  oats, 
Checking  the  field-lark's  rippling  notes  — 


*  Used  by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Double- 
day,  Page   &  Company. 


The  Golden  State  53 

Lightly  I  sweep 

From  steep  to  steep: 
Over  my  head  through  the  branches  high 
Come  glimpses  of  a  rushing  sky; 
The  tall  oats  brush  my  horse's  flanks; 
Wild  poppies  crowd  on  the  sunny  banks ; 
A  bee  booms  out  of  the  scented  grass ; 
A  jay  laughs  with  me  as  I  pass. 

I  ride  on  the  hills,  I  forgive,  I  forget 

Life's  hoard  of  regret  — 

All  the  terror  and  pain 

Of  the  chafing  chain. 

Grind  on,  O  cities,  grind: 

I  leave  you  a  blur  behind. 
I  am  lifted  elate  —  the  skies  expand : 
Here  the  world's  heaped  gold  is  a  pile  of  sand. 
Let  them  weary  and  work  in  their  narrow 

walls : 
I  ride  with  the  voices  of  waterfalls! 

I  swing  on  as  one  in  a  dream — I  swing 
Down  the  airy  hollows,  I  shout,  I  sing ! 
The  world  is  gone  like  an  empty  word : 
My  body's  a  bough  in  the  wind,  my  heart  a 
bird! 

Edwin  Markham. 


54  Golden  Songs  of 


THE  HEART'S  RETURN  * 

WHEN  darkened  hours  come  crowding  fast, 
A  thought  —  and  all  the  dark  is  past. 
For  I  am  back  a  boy  again, 
Knee-deep  in  heading  barley  in  a  Mendocino  glen. 

I  can  not  ever  be  so  sad 
But  one  thing  still  will  make  me  glad  — 
That  hid  spring  in  the  Suisun  hills: 
My  heart  keeps  going  back  to  it  thru  all  the  earthly 
ills. 

How  often  when  the  brood  of  care 
Would  hold  me  in  a  hopeless  snare, 
My  soul  springs  winged  and  away, 
Remembering  that  wild  duck's  nest  above  Benicia 
bay. 

Or  when  night  finds  me  toiling  still, 
I  am  back  again  on  the  greening  hill, 
A  shepherd  boy  at  set  of  sun, 

Folding  his  happy  sheep  and  knowing  all  his  tasks 
are  done. 

Edwin  Markham. 


*Used  by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Double- 
day,  Page  &  Company. 


The  Golden  State  55 


THE  LAST  DAYS 

THE  russet  leaves  of  the  sycamore 

Lie  at  last  on  the  valley  floor  — 

By  the  autumn  wind  swept  to  and  fro 

Like  ghosts  in  a  tale  of  long  ago. 

Shallow  and  clear  the  Carmel  glides 

Where  the  willows  droop  on  its  vine-walled  sides. 

The  bracken  rust  is  red  on  the  hill; 

The  pines  stand  brooding,  somber  and  still; 

Gray  are  the  cliffs,  and  the  waters  gray, 

Where  the  sea-gulls  dip  to  the  sea-born  spray. 

Sad  November,  lady  of  rain, 

Sends  the  goose-wedge  over  again. 

Wilder  now,  for  the  verdure's  birth, 
Falls  the  sunlight  over  the  earth; 
Kildees  call  from  the  fields  where  now 
The  banding  blackbirds  follow  the  plow; 
Rustling  poplar  and  brittle  weed 
Whisper  low  to  the  river-reed. 

Days  departing  linger  and  sigh : 
Stars  come  soon  to  the  quiet  sky ; 
Buried  voices,  intimate,  strange, 
Cry  to  body  and  soul  of  change; 


56  Golden  Songs  of 

Beauty,  eternal  fugitive, 

Seeks  the  home  that  we  cannot  give. 

George  Sterling. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  DOVE 

Hear  I  the  mourning-dove, 
As  now  the  swallow  floats 
Low  o'er  the  shadowed  oats? 

Soft  as  the  voice  of  love, 
Hear  I  her  slow  and  supplicating  notes? 

O  fugitive!    O  lone! 

O  burden  pure  and  strong 
That  summer  noons  prolong! 

O  link  in  music  shown 
Between  the  silence  and  an  angel's  song ! 

The  dulcimer  and  lute 

Hoard  not  so  swoonless  woe. 

What  grief  of  long  ago 
Would  now  thy  tones  transmute 
To  what  we  sought  afar  and  could  not  know  ? 

Thy  yearnings  yet  elude 
Our  quest  and  scrutiny, 
Tho  mortals  echo  thee 
Thy  moan  in  solitude 
For  dreams  that  are  not  nor  shall  ever  be. 


The  Golden  State  57 

So  broken  waters  hold 
A  voice  to  sorrow  set  — 
A  world's  foreknown  regret, 
Immutable,  untold. 

So  seas  remember,  tho  our  souls  forget. 

George  Sterling. 


THE  BLACK  VULTURE 

Aloof  upon  the  day's  immeasured  dome, 

He  holds  unshared  the  silence  of  the  sky. 

Far  down  his  bleak,  relentless  eyes  descry 
The  eagle's  empire  and  the  falcon's  home  — 
Far  down,  the  galleons  of  sunset  roam; 

His  hazards  on  the  sea  of  morning  lie; 

Serene,  he  hears  the  broken  tempest  sigh 
Where  cold  Sierras  gleam  like  scattered  foam. 

And  least  of  all  he  holds  the  human  swarm  — 
Unwitting  now  that  envious  men  prepare 
To  make  their  dream  and  its  fulfilment  one, 
When,  poised  above  the  caldrons  of  the  storm, 
Their  hearts,  contemptuous  of  death,  shall 

dare 

His  roads  between  the  thunder  and  the  sun. 

George  Sterling. 


Htbtng 


EL  DORADO:  A  SONG 

Largius  hie  campos  aether,  et  lumine  vestit 
Purpureo,  solemque  suum,  sua  sidera  norunt. 

OH,  THE  fields  aflame  with  poppies, 

Buttercups  and  columbine ! 
Oh,  the  haze  on  glade  and  coppice, 

Haunt  of  clematis  and  vine! 
Slopes  of  green  and  skies  propitious, 
And  the  air  a  draft  delicious, 

One  ethereal  anodyne. 

Oh,  the  sweet  acacia  flinging 

Golden  tassels  to  the  breeze; 
And  the  wild  canaries  singing 

In  and  out  the  almond  trees! 
Spires  of  apricot  and  cherry  — 
Lanes  of  lilies  —  and  the  merry 

Meadowlark  upon  the  leas ! 

Oh,  the  purpling  hills,  the  mountains, 
Towns  that  hallow  bight  and  bay, 

Creeks  and  canyons,  vales  and  fountains  — 
But  to  tell  them  is  to  pray!  — 

For  their  names  fulfill  the  chorus 
61 


62 Golden  Songs  of 

Of  a  thousand  saints  that  o'er  us 
Swing  their  censers,  night  and  day. 

Oh,  the  sun,  his  chariot  turning, 

Hither  wheels  precipitate, 
Royal  bannered,  westward  —  burning, 

Glorifies  the  Golden  Gate !  — 
Sinks  behind  the  Farallones, 
Where  his  trans-Elysian  throne  is, 

Where  he  keeps  nocturnal  state. 

Lo,  the  stars  —  a  purer  argent  — 
Furrow  fields  —  a  deeper  blue! 

And  the  city  from  the  margent 
Of  the  ocean  leaps  in  view, 

Climbs  the  hills  of  heaven  untiring — 

Lilies,  poppies,  flushing,  firing 
All  the  West  with  bloom  anew. 

Charles  Mills  Gayley. 


PRESIDIO  HILL 

SABRE  and  cross  on  this  historic  crown 

Began  the  conquest  of  our  Western  sward, 

Advancing,  while  they  builded  fort  and  town, 
The  Kingdom  of  the  Lord. 


The  Golden  State  63 

The  whale  calved,  then,  in  San  Diego  Bay, 
And  in  the  kelp  beds  off  the  Loman  shore, 

The  otter  bred.     Tales  of  that  deedful  day 
Leap  to  men's  lips  no  more; 

But  yonder  pair,  the  Parent  Palms,  oft  tell 

Two  things,  as  of  them  all  their  dreams  were 
made: 

How  first  rang  out  the  branch-swung  Mission  bell, 
How  Padre  Serra  prayed. 

The  while  they  speak,  the  old  winds  softer  blow 
Past  palsied  Old  Town,  drowsing  in  the  sun, 

Breathing  some  pertinent  burden, — "Long  ago 
The  padre's  work  was  done ! " 

Come  whence  we  may,  memorial  murmurs  find 
The  heart  of  us  who  on  these  grasses  tread; 

'Tis  benediction,  not  the  warm  sea-wind, 
The  breath  on  the  bowed  head, 

First  felt  here  when  pale  Serra  bowed,  his  lip 
Quivering  with  victory,  in  the  Master's  name, 

As,  with  the  sight  of  trust,  he  saw  the  ship 
Far  in  the  sun's  low  flame, 

And  the  Lord's  gate  was  safe.    This  mother  hill, 
Under  clear  skies,  beside  the  Peaceful  Sea, 


64  Golden  Songs  of 

Her  voices  all,  when  winds  are  loud  or  still, 
Are  sweet  with  memory. 

At  this  dark  hour  —  scarce  voice  enough  to  tell 
Whether  it  be  of  silence  or  of  sound  — 

The  day  is  saying  once  again,  "Farewell, 
God's  unforgotten  ground!" 

The  trusting  toil,  the  courage  of  it  all ! 

The  votive  grasses  tremble  and  grow  still : 
The  heavens  are  bending  low — 'tis  evenfall 

On  old  Presidio  Hill. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


COYOTE 

A  DIM  lithe  shape  moves  over  the  mesa, 
Roves  with  the  night  wind  up  and  down; 

The  light-foot  ghost,  the  wild  dog  of  the  shadow. 
Howls  on  the  level  beyond  the  town. 
Cry,  cry  Coyote! 

No  fellow  has  he,  with  leg  or  wing, 

No  mate  has  that  spectre  in  fur  or  feather; 

In  the  sage  brush  is  whelped  a  fuzzy  thing, 
And  mischief  itself  helps  lick  him  together. 
Up,  cub  Coyote! 


The  Golden  State  65 

The  winds  come  blowing  over  and  over, 
The  great  white  moon  is  looking  down ; 

In  the  throat  of  the  dog  is  devil's  laughter. 
Is  he  baying  the  moon  or  baying  the  town  ? 
Howl,  howl,  Coyote! 

The  shadow-dog  on  the  windy  mesa, 

He  sits,  and  he  laughs  in  his  devil's  way, 
Look  to  the  roost  and  lock  up  the  lambkin ; 
A  deal  may  happen  'twixt  now  and  the  day. 
Ha,  ha,  Coyote! 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


WIRELESS 

THE  high  stars  glimmer  in  thine  iron  net, 

And  winds  go  whimpering  along  the  wires ; 

Vast  on  the  dark  thy  Titan  bulk  aspires  — 
A  watcher  on  a  lonely  parapet! 
And  far,  from  hidden  isles  in  ocean  set, 

Invisibly,  yet  thrall  to  thy  desires, 

They  come,  on  wings  nor  storm  nor  darkness 

tires  — 

Words  that  the  far-off  hearts  of  men  beget. 
Gaunt  harvester  of  desperate  gulfs  of  night, 

Strange  winnower  in  wide  dim  vales  of  air, 
Wilt  thou  yet  garner  by  thy  mystic  might 


66 Golden  Songs  of 

Some  word  to  still  our  ancient  long  despair? 
A  whisper  from  the  infinite?  —  a  breath 
Caught  from  the  far  unfathomed  gulf  of  death? 

Henry  Anderson  Lafler. 


THE  WHITE  FEET  OF  ATTHIS 

THEN  Atthis  to  her  lover-poet  said : 

"  Why  dost  thou  never  murmur  of  my  feet 

A  little  song  and  sweet? 

For  surely  they  are  worth  a  fragile  rhyme 

To  cast  in  the  teeth  of  Time." 

From  that  imperious  countenance,  behold, 

He  looked  along  the  dais  stained  with  gold 

Where  bright  her  silver  garments  gleamed  and,  lo ! 

A  little  drift  of  snow 

Was  newly  fallen  there, 

Nor  fled  in  the  dim  air. 

Gazing,  a  mist  about  his  eyelids  fell ; 

As  strokes  of  a  loud  bell 

His  heart  beat :  loveliness 

Surged  in  his  brain  and  did  his  soul  possess, 

And  earth's  white  shapes,  a  cavalcade  of  dreams, 

Hurried  their  phantom-streams ; 

[Yet  came  no  vision  out  of  lands  or  seas 


The  Golden  State  67 

So  per  feet- fair  as  these  — 

So  white,  so  slight,  so  pale,  so  frail,  so  sweet 

Were  her  unsandaled  feet. 

Ah,  grieved  was  his  heart 

That  ever  in  mead  or  mart 

Aught  carved  so  fragilely  and  slender-round 

Should  tread  the  dark,  cold  ground. 

"  Such  white  hath  not  the  curds 
Drawn  of  the  dreamy  herds, 
Nor  white  breasts  of  white  birds, 
Nor  marble  women  folded  in  their  stone, 
Still,  sunless,  and  unknown. 

"  White  of  a  moonlit  garden  of  pale  roses, 

And  blossomy  orchard-closes, 

Or  shroud  that  wreathes  a  girl's  virginity  * — * 

Her  cold  inviolacy  — 

Or  viewless  foam  of  far,  enchanted  seas  — 

Nay,  not  any  of  these 

Is  whiter — " 

Suddenly, 

With  petulant  bright  mouth  a-question,  she 
Shattered  to  air  that  weaving  reverie 

"  Tak'st  thou  so  long  to  see  that  they  are  fair, 
So  mute  thou  standest  there  ? 


68  Golden  Songs  of 

A  song  I'd  have  to  quell  the  singing  birds, 

Of  soft  and  colored  words, 

All  woven  together  in  a  gleaming  rhyme  — 

Seven  silver  bells  a-chime 

To  ring  and  murmur  in  all  maidens'  ears 

Through  the  unceasing  years : 

Her  feet  were  smallest,  fairest.    They  must  be 

Forever  hating  me." 

Then  he  from  all  his  dreams  awakened, 

His  grave  eyes  lifted,  said: 

"O  Beautiful,  mine  all-allegiance 

Bowed  to  the  emerald  shadows  of  thy  glance, 

And  thine  unconquered  mouth 

(A  scarlet  poppy  out  of  the  warm  South), 

And  till  thou  bad'st  them  see 

Mine  eyes  knew  not  so  far  a  falsity 

Unto  thy  face,  O  Sweet, 

As  one  small,  fleeting  glance  unto  thy  feet !  " 

Thereat  she  laughed  in  her  high  queenly  mood, 
And  said :  "  Thy  words  are  of  thy  poethood, 
And  wilt  thou  bring  some  slight  immortal  rhyme 
In  morrow's  morning-time?" 

He  leaned,  and  Atthis  yielded  to  his  lips 
Her  cold,  sweet  finger-tips. 

Henry  Anderson  Lafler. 


The  Golden  State  69 


THE  TRAIL 

IN  SOLEMN  rank  on  either  hand 

The  patient,  upright  cedars  stand. 

The  trail,  worn  smooth  by  countless  feet, 

Is  older  than  an  old-world  street; 

But  no  old  streets  hold  such  a  bower 

Encircled  by  high  fern  and  flower 

Whose  shadows  play  on  mossy  ground; 

And  no  old  streets  know  such  a  sound 

As  rises  when  the  constant  stream, 

Chanting  its  season-varied  theme, 

Is  colored  by  the  last  clear  note 

From  some  brave  singer's  pulsing  throat, 

Who  holds  the  last  branch  lit  by  sun 

And  dares  deny  that  day  is  done. 

Yet,  different  as  the  old  world  seems, 

E'en  here  youth  waits  and  weaves  her  dreams, 

And  lo !  the  makers  of  the  trail 

Pass  once  again  before  the  veil, 

Strange  in  their  garb  of  ancient  days. 

And  strange,  too,  that  they  go  their  ways 

Turning  their  heads  no  whit  to  gaze 

Upon  the  glory  of  her  bower, 

Resplendent  at  the  evening  hour 

With  beauty  and  the  light  of  youth  — 

They  are  but  phantom  folk  in  truth ! 

Noiseless,  a  savage  hunter,  first, 


70  Golden  Songs  of 

Marks  where  the  antlered  deer  has  burst 
From  out  his  covert  fringed  with  ferns, 
And  through  the  quiet  air  returns 
The  fading  turmoil  of  his  flight. 
With  laughter  low  and  footsteps  light, 
A  youth  and  maid  in  happy  plight 
Walk  slowly  on,  arm  linking  arm, 
Unconscious  of  impending  harm 
In  this  last  sunset  of  their  sway. 
Close- folio  wing  the  long-trod  way, 
A  travel-stained  priest  with  pendant  cross, 
Comes,  the  first  herald  of  their  loss; 
And  in  his  steps  a  ruffian  band 
Sent  out  of  Spain  to  burn  and  brand; 
Then,  swiftly,  seeking  to  be  first, 
Heedless  of  hunger,  scorning  thirst, 
A  whole  world's  venturers,  led  by  dreams 
Of  rich  and  undiscovered  streams, 
Whose  waters,  clear,  and  swift  and  cold, 
Sweep  over  nests  of  virgin  gold ; 
Behind  these,  seeking  what  they  left, 
Close  searching  every  narrow  cleft 
And  washing  over  twice-washed  sand, 
An  alien  and  more  patient  band, 
Whose  narrow,  Orient  eyes,  and  keen, 
Follow  their  path  and  leave  it  clean ; 
Last,  walking  slowly  where  these  toiled, 
And  scanning  close  the  banks  despoiled, 


The  Golden  State  71 

The  searchers  of  the  sources  pass, 
Marking  each  loose  stone  in  the  grass, 
Noting  the  contour  of  the  ground, 
The  color  of  the  soil,  the  sound 
Of  certain  rock  that,  like  a  bell, 
Will  speak  and  its  long  secret  tell. 
Before  these  vanish  from  her  sight 
'A  clear  voice  wakes  the  birds  to  flight; 
And  with  his  greeting  die  away 
All  visions  of  an  earlier  day. 

In  solemn  rank  on  either  hand 

The  patient,  upright  cedars  stand. 

The  trail,  worn  smooth  by  countless  feet, 

Leads  ....  home,  like  any  old-world  street. 

David  Atkins. 


TO  VIRGINIA 

SPRING  and  the  daffodil  again  — 

I  heard  the  lark  at  dawn, 
A  liquid  cadence  through  the  rain 

Across  my  lawn. 

The  wet  red  roses  all  around 

Stir  in  the  breeze, 
The  first  white  trillium  breaks  the  ground 

Under  the  canyon  trees. 


72  Golden  Songs  of 

I  bring  the  wild  white  flower  of  spring, 

Above  all  others  thine, 
As  he  whom  with  the  gift  I  bring 

Thy  Valentine. 

Henry  Atkins. 


OLD  GLORY  <.: 

ENCHANTED  web !    A  picture  in  the  air, 

Drifted  to  us  from  out  the  distance  blue 
From  shadowy  ancestors,  through  whose  brave  care 

We  live  in  magic  of  a  dream  come  true  — 
With  Covenanters'  blue,  as  if  were  glassed 
In  dewy  flower-heart  the  stars  that  passed. 

O  blood-veined  blossom  that  can  never  blight! 

The  Declaration,  like  a  sacred  rite, 
Is  in  each  star  and  stripe  declamatory, 

The  Constitution  thou  shalt  long  recite, 
Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "  Old  Glory  " ! 

O  symphony  in  red,  white,  blue!  —  fanfare 

Of  trumpet,  roll  of  drum,  forever  new 
Reverberations  of  the  Bell,  that  bear 

Its  tones  of  liberty  the  wide  world  through! 
In  battle  dreaded  like  a  cyclone  blast, 
Symbol  of  land  and  people  unsurpassed, 

Thy  brilliant  day  shall  never  have  a  night. 

On  foreign  shore  no  pomp  so  grand  a  sight, 


The  Golden  State  73 

No  face  so  friendly,  naught  consolatory 

Like  glimpse  of  lofty  spar  with  thee  bedight, 
Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "  Old  Glory  " ! 

Thou  art  the  one  Flag,  an  embodied  prayer, 
One,  highest  and  most  perfect  to  review; 

Without  one,  nothing;  it  is  lineal,  square, 
Has  properties  of  all  the  numbers,  too, 

Cube,  solid,  square  root,  root  of  root;  best  classed 

It  for  His  Essence  the  Creator  cast, 

For  purity  are  thy  six  stripes  of  white, 
This  number  circular  and  endless  quite, 

Six  times,  well  knows  the  scholar  wan  and  hoary 
His  compass  spanning  circle  can  alight, 

Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory"! 

Boldly  the  seven  lines  of  scarlet  flare, 

As  when  o'er  old  centurion  it  blew 
(Red  is  the  trumpet's  tone,  it  means  to  dare!) 

God  favored  seven  when  creation  grew; 
The  seven  planets ;  seven  hues  contrast ; 
The  seven  metals ;  seven  days,  not  last 

The  seven  tones  of  marvellous  delight 

That  lend  the  listening  soul  their  wings  for  flight ; 
But  why  complete  the  happy  category 

That  gives  the  thirteen  stripes  their  charm  and 

might  ? 
Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory"! 


74  Golden  Songs  of 

In  thy  dear  colors,  honored  everywhere, 

The  great  and  mystic  ternion  we  view ; 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  are  numbered  there 

And  the  three  nails  the  Crucifixion  knew. 
Three  are  offended  when  one  has  trespassed, 
God,  and  one's  neighbor  and  one's  self  aghast; 

Christ's  deity  and  soul  and  manhood's  height ; 

Father,  and  Son  and  Ghost  may  here  unite, 
[With  texts  like  these  divinely  monitory, 

What  wonder  that  thou  conquerest  in  the  fight, 
Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "  Old  Glory  " ! 


Envoy 

O  blessed  Flag!  sign  of  our  precious  Past, 

Triumphant  Present  and  our  Future  vast, 

Beyond  starred  blue  and  bars  of  sunset  bright, 
Lead  us  to  higher  realm  of  Equal  Right! 

Float  on  in  ever  lovely  allegory, 

Kin  to  the  eagle,  and  the  wind,  and  light, 

Our  hallowed,  eloquent,  beloved  "Old  Glory"! 

Emma  Frances  Dawson. 


The  Golden  State  75 


WHEN  ALMONDS  BLOOM 

WHEN  almond  buds  unclose, 
Soft  white  and  tender  rose, — 
A  swarm  of  white  moth  things, 
With  sunset  on  their  wings, 
That  fluttering  settle  down 
On  branches  chill  and  brown; 
When  all  the  sky  is  blue, 
And  up  from  grasses  new 
Blithe  springs  the  meadow  lark, — 
Sweet,  sweet,  from  dawn  to  dark,— * 
When  all  the  young  year's  way 
Grows  sweeter  day  by  day;  — 
When  almond  buds  unclose, 
Who  doubts  of  May's  red  rose  ? 

Milicent  Washburn  Shinn. 


AN  ABALONE  SHELL 

THE  sun  went  down  in  fog  tonight, 
Dropped  like  a  plummet  in  the  bay; 

Only  the  East  was  faintly  bright, 

While  all  the  West  was  wide  and  gray. 

The  glories  from  the  sky  are  stripped, 
The  long,  smooth  breakers  meet  the  land, 


76  Golden  Songs  of 

Foam-stricken,  gray-green,  sullen-lipped ; 
I  hold  the  sunset  in  my  hand. 

Grace  MacGowan  Cooke, 


A  WEDDING-DAY  GALLOP 
(Early  California) 

GALLOP  with  me,  love,  away  and  away, 

To  the  infinite  blue  at  the  end  of  the  day. 

Here  at  the  gate 

Crimhild  and  Brunswicker  wistfully  wait; 
Up  to  the  saddle,  away  and  away, 
Far  away,  far,  to  the  end  of  the  day. 

Here  by  the  river  and  there  by  the  plain, 
Here  in  the  sunlight  and  there  in  the  rain ; 
Off  round  the  mountain's  bewildering  base, 
Off  and  away,  love. 

There  by  the  sea,  along  the  gray  shore, 
Across  the  dim  desert,  miles  score  and  score; 
Away  and  away  and  always  with  me. 
Gallop  and  gallop  forever  with  me. 

Now  by  the  sea ! 
Feet  on  the  sand  keeping  time  with  the  waves, 

Smile  on  the  lips  and  flush  on  the  cheek. 
Now  a  smile,  just  a  glance,  all  our  happiness  saves 

Each  for  the  other ;  that  language  we  speak 


The  Golden  State 77 

As  we  gallop  and  gallop  o'er  weed  and  o'er  shell. 
Hark  to  the  waves  as  they  rise  and  they  swell, 

At  the  swing  of  the  berylline  sea. 
Now  the  waves  gallop  on  like  hounds  at  our  feet, 
And  ever  the  wavering  moments  repeat 
Crimhild's  and  Brunswicker's  gallopings  fleet, 

Along  by  the  sea, 
The  chalcedonine,  wavering,  berylline  sea. 

The  dun  desert  now! 

Level  sand,  ever  sand,  not  a  hillock  or  cleft; 
Lizard  here,  squirrel  there,  hurries  right,  scurries 

left; 

Sagebrush  and  bitterwood  mingle  and  flow, 
Wavelike  and  serpentine,  on  as  we  go. 
Shadow  as  scant  as  the  dews  and  the  damp — 

'Ware,  there,  good  Crimhild !  a  snake  coils 

to  spring! 

Ah,  her  foot  cleaves  him  dead  with  a  metrical  stamp, 
With  a  flash  of  the  eye  like  the  flare  of  a  lamp. 

Now  a  lift  of  white  mane  like  the  beat  of  a 

wing, 

Neck  to  neck  she  is  matching  black  Bruns 
wicker's  swing. 


A  palm-shadowed  pool, 
Deeply  dark,  deeply  cool, 


78  Golden  Songs  of 

Desert-girt,  green  jeweled,  alone  in  the  land, 
Like  the  emerald  engraven  I've  set  on  this  hand. 
Rest,  rest  in  its  shade  here,  thou  heart  of  my 

heart. 
Here's  a  cup  from  my  scrip.    Here  is  fruit  ripe  and 

rare. 

Juice  of  citron,  bread  of  snow,  yellow  figs  in  a  rime 
Of  sweet  dust;  jellied  cherries,  white  once  on  a 

time  — 

Dost  remember?  —  in  bloom  overhead 
iWhen  hearkened  thy  heart  to  the  word  that  mine 

said. 


Dim  lie  the  blue  mountains ;  and  there  waits  the  dusk 
With  a  star  in  her  forehead, —  a  home,  O  my 

heart, 
To  enfold  us  and  hold  us;  a  gardened 

repose 
Of  lilies  in  alleys,  and  roses,  and  musk 

Of  ripe  grapes  from  the  vineyard,  all  agleam 

and  apart, 
In  green  oaken  glades  as  my  heart  sees  and 

knows. 

As  my  heart  sees  and  knows, 
There's  thy  window,  netted  around  with  a  jasmine 

that  gropes, 
Overclimbing  the  purple  of  low  heliotropes, 


The  Golden  State  79 

To  look  with  its  numberless  stars  on  thy  face, 
And  sweeten  the  garden  with  new-gathered  grace. 

There  shines  the  home-candle,  through  alley  and 

vine. 

Home,  home,  at  last,  love, —  thine,  thine !  And  mine 
Only  so !  Wide  the  gate,  dear  and  blessed  the  door. 
Now  enter,  and  dwell,  be  at  rest,  heart  and  thought, 

evermore. 

So  endeth  our  gallop,  our  days  of  all  days, 
Through  the  land,  by  the  sea, 

Through  the  desert  wild  ways, 

Together,  together,  and  always  to  be. 

Irene  Hardy. 


NEITHER  SPIRIT  NOR  BIRD 
(Shoshone  Love  Song) 

NEITHER  spirit  nor  bird — 
That  was  my  flute  you  heard 
Last  night  by  the  river. 
When  you  came  with  your  wicker  jar 
Where  the  river  drags  the  willows, 
That  was  my  flute  you  heard, 
Wacoba,  Wacoba, 
Calling,  Come  to  the  willows! 


80  Golden  Songs  of 

Neither  the  wind  nor  a  bird 
Rustled  the  lupine  blooms  — 
That  was  my  blood  you  heard 
Answer  your  garment's  hem 
Whispering  through  the  grasses; 
That  was  my  blood  you  heard 
By  the  wild  rose  under  the  willows. 

That  was  no  beast  that  stirred  — 
That  was  my  blood  you  heard 
Pacing  to  and  fro 
In  the  ambush  of  my  desire 
To  the  flute's  four-noted  call. 
Wacoba,  Wacoba, 
That  was  my  heart  you  heard 
Leaping  under  the  willows. 

Mary  Austin. 


THE  BED  OF  FLEUR-DE-LYS 

HIGH-LYING,  sea-blown  stretches  of  green  turf, 
Wind-bitten  close,  salt-colored  by  the  sea, 
Low  curve  on  curve  spread  far  to  the  cool  sky, 
And  curving  over  them  as  long  they  lie, 
Beds  of  wild  fleur-de-lys. 

Wide-growing,  self-sown,  stealing  near  and  far, 
Breaking  the  green  like  islands  in  the  seas ; 


The  Golden  State  81 

Great  stretches  at  your  feet,  and  spots  that  bend 
Dwindling  over  the  horizon's  end, — 
Wild  beds  of  fleur-de-lys. 

The  light  keen  wind  streams  on  across  the  lifts, 
Their  wind  of  western  springtime  by  the  sea; 
The  close  turf  smiles  unmoved,  but  over  her 
Is  the  far-lying  rustle  and  sweet  stir 
In  beds  of  fleur-de-lys. 

And  here  and  there  across  the  smooth,  low  grass 
Tall  maidens  wander  thinking  of  the  sea; 
And  bend,  and  bend,  with  light  robes  blown  aside, 
For  the  blue  lily  flowers  that  bloom  so  wide, — 
The  beds  of  fleur-de-lys. 

Charlotte  Perkins  Oilman. 


TO  THE  COLORADO  DESERT 

THOU  brown,  bare-breasted,  voiceless  mystery, 
Hot  sphynx  of  nature,  cactus-crowned,  what  hast 

thou  done? 
Unclothed  and  mute  as  when  the  groans  of  chaos 

turned 

Thy  naked  burning  bosom  to  the  sun. 
The  mountain  silences  have  speech,  the  rivers  sing, 
Thou  answerest  never  unto  anything. 


82  Golden  Songs  of 

Pink  throated  lizards  pant  in  thy  slim  shade ; 

The  horned  toad  runs  rustling  in  the  heat ; 

The  shadowy  gray  coyote,  born  afraid, 

Steals  to  some  brackish  spring,  and  leaps  and  prowls 

Away,  and  howls  and  howls  and  howls  and  howls, 

Until  the  solitude  is  shaken  with  added  loneliness. 

The  sharp  mescal  shoots  up  a  giant  stalk, 

Its  centuries  of  yearning  to  the  sunburnt  skies, 

And  drops  rare  honey  from  the  lips 

Of  yellow  waxen  flowers,  and  dies. 

Some  lengthwise  sun-dried  shapes  with   feet  and 

hands, 

And  thirsty  mouths  pressed  on  the  sweltering  sands, 
Make  here  and  there  a  gruesome  graveless  spot 
Where  someone  drank  the  scorching  hotness  and  is 

not. 

God  must  have  made  thee  in  His  anger  and  forgot. 

Madge  Morris  Wagner. 


The  Golden  State  83 

AT  THE  STEVENSON  FOUNTAIN 

(Portsmouth  Square,  San  Francisco) 

PERHAPS  from  out  the  thousands  passing  by  — 
The  City's  hopeless  lotos-eaters  these, 
Blown  by  the  four  winds  of  the  seven  seas 

From  common  want  to  common  company — 

Perhaps  someone  may  lift  a  heavy  eye 

And  see,  dream-blown  across  his  memories, 
Those  golden  pennons  bellying  in  the  breeze 

And  spread  for  ports  where  fair  adventures  lie. 

And  O !  that  such  a  one  may  stay  a  space 
And  taste  of  sympathy,  till  to  his  ears 

Might  come  the  tale  of  him  who  knew  the  grace 
To  suffer  sweetly  through  the  bitter  years ; 

To  catch  the  smile  concealed  in  Fortune's  face 
And  draw  contentment  from  a  cup  of  tears ! 

Wallace  Irwin. 


84 Golden  Songs  of 

IN  THE  MOJAVE 

THE  starved  and  passionate  desert 

Stares  hungry  at  the  sky: 
"O  smile  not  so  forever,  love, 

With  lids  forever  dry. 

"In  tears  and  not  in  laughter 

Lave  oft  shall  dearest  be. 
My  heart  is  thirsty  for  your  tears 

To  come  and  comfort  me!" 

I  breathe  the  desert's  passion; 

The  sun  is  hot  above. 
Oh,  rain  them  down  upon  my  heart, — 

The  soft,  cool  tears  of  love! 

Charles  F.  Lummis. 


JUST  CALIFORNIA 

TWIXT  the  seas  and  the  deserts, 

'Twixt  the  wastes  and  the  waves, 
Between  the  sands  of  buried  lands 

And  ocean's  coral  caves, 
It  lies  nor  East  nor  West, 

But  like  a  scroll  unfurled, 
Where  the  hand  of  God  hath  hung  it, 

Down  the  middle  of  the  world. 


The  Golden  State  85 

It  lies  where  God  hath  spread  it 

In  the  gladness  of  His  eyes, 
Like  a  flame  of  jeweled  tapestry 

Beneath  His  shining  skies; 
With  the  green  of  woven  meadows, 

And  the  hills  in  golden  chains, 
The  light  of  leaping  rivers, 

And  the  flash  of  poppied  plains. 

Days  rise  that  gleam  in  glory, 

Days  die  with  sunset's  breeze, 
While  from  Cathay  that  was  of  old 

Sail  countless  argosies; 
Morns  break  again  in  splendor 

O'er  the  giant  New-born  west, 
But  of  all  the  lands  God  fashioned, 

'Tis  this  land  is  the  best. 

Sun  and  dews  that  kiss  it, 

Balmy  winds  that  blow, 
The  stars  in  clustered  diadems 

Upon  its  peak  of  snow ; 
The  mighty  mountains  o'er  it, 

Below  the  white  seas  swirled  — 
Just  California  stretching  down 

The  middle  of  the  world. 

John  Steven  McGroarty. 


86 Golden  Songs  of 

JANUARY 

WHEN  garden  plats  are  pinched  and  brown, 

Because  the  sun  itself  is  cold; 
When  streams  are  swollen,  freighted  down 

With  sodden  drift  and  the  red  mold; 
When  plum  trees,  stripped  of  leafy  gown, 

Toward  the  salt  mist  lean  branches  sere ; 
Then  hey,  my  heart,  and  ho,  my  heart, 

The  turning  of  the  year. 

When  crows  fly  low  and  dusks  are  gray, 

And  mists  lie  fleecy  on  the  hills ; 
When  walks  are  bright  at  break  of  day, 

And  from  the  hedge  a  robin  trills; 
When  leaf  buds  feel  the  rising  play 

Of  spring's  intoxicating  brew, 
Then  hey,  my  heart,  and  ho,  my  heart, 

The  year  begins  anew. 

Warren  Cheney. 

WHEN  ZEPHYRS  BLOW 

WHEN  zephyrs  blow  and  softly  bring 
A  subtle  scent  of  new-born  spring; 
O,  then,  old  vagrant  dreams  arise 
Of  other  lands  and  other  skies 
Where  once  I  went  a-wandering. 


The  Golden  State  87 

Ay,  me !  how  recollections  cling ! 
The  days  gone  by  have  left  their  sting. 
But  love  detains  me  with  his  sighs 
And  holds  me  as  his  captive  prize: 
No  more  I'll  go  a- wander  ing 
When  zephyrs  blow. 

Samuel  Travers  Clover. 


IN  CARMEL  BAY 

IN  CARMEL  Bay  the  fleeting  day, 
Reluctant,  casts  her  robes  away 

And  steps  into  the  night. 
The  fragrant  land  on  either  hand 
A  crescent  forms  of  glistening  sand, 

A  bow  to  speed  her  flight. 

O'er  restless  seas  she  runs  at  ease, 
The  chariot  of  the  sun  to  seize, 

Ere  he  shall  drop  from  sight. 
The  pines  in  banks  and  solid  ranks 
Surrounding,  seem  pursuing  flanks 

Of  Beauty's  army  green. 

To  hold  her  still  against  her  will 
rA  captive  sweet  the  night  to  fill 
With  visions  vaguely  seen. 


88  Golden  Songs  of 

The  tides  run  high  against  the  sky, 
Birds  wing  in  flight  and  homeward  fly, 
To  treetops  tall  and  clean. 

The  waiting  earth  has  spent  her  mirth 
And  silent,  rolls  her  shadowed  girth 

In  pale  consenting  night. 
There  is  no  way  for  Day  to  stay, 
Beyond  her  time  or  path  to  stray  — 

She  steps  into  the  night. 

Madge  Clover. 


THE  ROSARY 

THE  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart, 

Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me; 
I  count  them  over,  every  one  apart, 
My  rosary. 

Each  hour  a  pearl,  each  pearl  a  prayer, 
To  still  a  heart  in  absence  wrung ; 
I  tell  each  bead  unto  the  end  —  and  there 
A  cross  is  hung. 

Oh,  memories  that  bless  —  and  burn! 

Oh,  barren  gain  —  and  bitter  loss ! 
I  kiss  each  bead,  and  strive  at  last  to  learn 


The  Golden  State 


To  kiss  the  cross, 

Sweetheart, 
To  kiss  the  cross. 

Robert  Cameron  Rogers. 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

A  FIRE-MIST  and  a  planet, 

A  crystal  and  a  cell, 
A  jellyfish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cavemen  dwell; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty, 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod  — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite,  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tint  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high; 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland, 

The  charm  of  the  goldenrod  — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea-beach, 
When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 


90  Golden  Songs  of 

Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 
Come  welling  and  surging  in : 

Come  from  the  mystic  ocean 
Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod  — 

Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 
And  others  call  it  God. 

A  picket  frozen  on  duty, 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood, 
Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock, 

And  Jesus  on  the  rood; 
And  millions,  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  plod  — 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

William  Herbert  Carruth. 


GOLD-OF-OPHIR  ROSES 
I 

O  FLOWER  of  passion,  rocked  by  balmy  gales, 

Flushed  with  life's  ecstasy, 
Before  whose  golden  glow  the  poppy  pales 

And  yields  her  sovereignty! 

Child  of  the  ardent  south,  thy  burning  heart 
Has  felt  the  sun's  hot  kiss ; 


The  Golden  State  91 

Thy  creamy  petals  falling  half  apart 
Quiver  with  recent  bliss. 

For  joy  at  thy  unequalled  loveliness, 

He  woos  with  fierce  delight; 
And  thy  glad  soul,  half  faint  with  his  caress, 

Yet  glories  in  his  might. 

Thy  sighs  go  out  in  perfume  on  the  air, 

Rich  incense  of  thy  love, 
And  mystic  lights,  an  opalescence  rare, 

Play  round  thee  from  above. 

II 

So  thou  dost  riot  through  the  glad  spring  days, 
Sun-wooed  and  reveling  in  eager  life, 

Till  all  the  shadowed  fragrance  of  the  ways 
With  thy  rich  bloom  and  glowing  tints  is  rife. 

A  joyous  smile  that  hides  a  secret  tear, 
A  note  of  music  with  a  minor  strain, 

A  heart  of  gold  where  crimson  wounds  appear, 
Thou  breathest  all  love's  sweetness  and  its  pain. 

Yet  suddenly,  even  at  thy  loveliest, 
Thou  palest  with  thine  own  intensity. 

Ah,  Passion's  child,  thou  art  most  truly  blest, 
To  bloom  one  perfect  day,  and  then  to  die. 
Grace  Atherton  Dennen. 


92  Golden  Songs  of 


EBB  TIDE  AT  NOON 

THE  breezes  sleep;  their  morning  journey  done. 

The  seaweeds  mat  the  sluggish  channel's  edges. 
The  sand-flat  twinkles  in  the  summer  sun, 

And  fishes  flap  and  spatter  in  the  sedges. 

Far  off  across  the  dunes  there  comes  the  sound 
Of  lazy  surges  droning  on  the  shingle. 

My  boat  drifts  idly,  swinging  half-aground;  — 
Then  bickering  gulls  their  raucous  voices  mingle 

For  all  has  changed ;  and  to  the  harbor  bar 
Has  come  a  secret  message  from  the  ocean, 

A  thousand  hurrying  ripples  speed  from  far, 
And  all  the  waters  waken  into  motion. 

Gelett  Burgess. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR 

HERE'S  to  the  Cause,  and  the  blood  that  feeds  it ! 

Here's  to  the  Cause,  and  the  soul  that  speeds  it ! 
Coward  or  Hero,  or  Bigot  or  Sage, 
All  shall  take  part  in  the  war  that  we  wage ; 

And  though  'neath  our  banners  range  contrary  man- 


The  Golden  State  93 

ners,  shall  we  pick,  shall  we  choose  'twixt 
the  false  and  the  true? 

Not  for  us  to  deny  them,  let  the  Cause  take  and  try 
them  —  the  one  man  for  us  is  the  man  who 
can  do! 

Here's  to  the  Cause,  let  who  will  get  the  Glory ! 
Here's  to  the  Cause,  and  a  fig  for  the  story ! 

The  braggarts  may  tell  it  who  serve  but  for 

fame; 
There'll  be  more  than  enough  that  will  die  for 

the  Name! 
And  though  in  some  eddy  our  vessels  unsteady  be 

stranded   and  wrecked   ere  the  victory's 

won, 
Let  the  current  sweep  by  us.     O  Death,  come  and 

try  us!     What  if  laggards  win  praise,  if 

the  Cause  shall  go  on? 

Here's  to  the  Cause,  and  the  years  that  have  passed ! 
Here's  to  the  Cause  —  it  will  triumph  at  last! 
The  end  shall  illumine  the  hearts  that  have 

braved 
All  the  years  and  the  fears  that  the  Cause  might 

be  saved. 

And  though  what  we  hoped  for,  and  darkly  have 
groped  for,  come  not  in  the  manner  we 
prayed  that  it  should, 


94  Golden  Songs  of 

We  shall  gladly  confess  it,  and  the  Cause,  may  God 
bless  it!  shall  find  us  all  worthy  who  did 
what  we  could! 

Gelett  Burgess. 


IN  AN  ALAMEDA  FIELD 

LOST  Sappho's  voice  passed  on  the  wind  today 

In  the  perishing  soprano  of  a  lark, 
That  called  down  April's  rose-apparelled  way; 

And  far  quick  thrills  of  color  frayed  the  dark 
As  though  God's  garment  trailed  along  the  east; 

Keen  tender  odors  drifted  from  the  sea, 
And  splendid  gold  through  all  the  sky  increased, 

As  her  wild  lyric  cry  rang  out  to  me. 

Her  strain  fell  quivering  sweet,  "Forbear  to  love;" 

Fell  with  the  old  heart-rifting  of  despair; 
Fell  in  a  break  of  grief  past  telling  of  — 
"Forbear  to  love,  to  love  forbear,  forbear." 
To  only  my  grief -sharpened  ear  she  cried, 
How  could  she  know  my  heart  last  night  had  died  ? 
Anna  Catherine  Markham. 


The  Golden  State  95 


SONG  OF  CRADLE-MAKING 

THOU  hast  stirred! 
When  I  lifted  thy  little  cradle, 
The  little  cradle  I  am  making  for  thee, 
I  felt  thee! 

The  face  of  the  beach  smiled, 
I  heard  the  pine-trees  singing : 

In  the  White  Sea  the  Dawn-Eagle  dipped  his  wing. 
O,  never  have  I  seen  so  much  light  through  thy 
father's  doorway! 

(Wast  thou  pleased  with  thy  little  cradle?) 

Last  night  I  said :  "  When  the  child  comes  — 

If  it  is  a  Son  — 

I  will  trim  his  cradle  with  shells : 

And  proudly  I  will  bear  him  in  his  rich  cradle 

Past  the  doors  of  barren  women ; 

And  all  shall  see  my  Little  Chief  in  his  rich  cradle! " 

That  was  last  night  ; 

Last  night  thou  hadst  not  stirred ! 

O  I  know  not  if  thou  be  a  son  — 

Strong  Chief,  Great  Fisher,  Law-of  Woman, 

As  thy  father  is ; 


96  Golden  Songs  of 

Or  only  Sorrow- Woman,  Patient  Serving  Hands, 

Like  thy  mother. 

I  only  know  I  love  thee, 

Thou  Little  One  under  my  heart ! 

For  thou  didst  move ;  and  every  part  of  me  trembled. 

I  will  trim  thy  cradle  with  many  shells,  and  with 

cedar-fringes ; 

Thou  shalt  have  goose- feathers  on  thy  blanket ! 
I  will  bear  thee  in  my  hands  along  the  beach, 
Singing  as  the  sea  sings, 
Because  the  little  mouths  of  sand  are  ever  at  her 

breast. 

0  Mother- face  of  the  Sea,  how  thou  dost  smile  — 
And  I  have  wondered  at  thy  smiling ! 

Aiihi!    Thy  Little  feet  — 

1  felt  them  press  me! 

Lightly,  so  lightly  I  hear  them  coming: 

Like  little  brown  leaves  running  over  the  earth  — 

Little  leaves,  wind-hastened  on  the  sudden  autumn 

trails ! 

Earth  loves  the  little  running  feet  of  leaves. 
—  (Thy  little  brown  feet!) 

O  K'antsamiq'ala  Soe,  Our  Praised  One, 
Let  there  be  no  more  barren  women! 
May  thou  bring  no  tears,  my  child 


The  Golden  State  97 

When  I  bear  thee,  in  thy  rich  cradle, 

By  the  chanting  sea-paths  where  the  women  labor. 

Thou  hast  stirred ! 
Oh!  haste,  haste,  little  feet  — 
Little  brown  feet  lightly  running 
Down  the  trail  of  the  hundred  days ! 

The  wind  is  white  with  rocking  bird-cradles ; 
Day  is  in  the  eyes  of  the  Sea. 
Ah !  never  have  I  seen  so  much  light 
Through  thy  father's  doorway! 

Constance  Lindsay  Skinner. 


IPHIGENIA  IN  AULIS 
(Greek  Theater,  August  14,  1915) 

O  GODLIKE  gestures,  whose  compelling  sweep 
Bids  buried  glories  and  the  golden  lore 
Of  days  long  lost  live  all  their  beauty  o'er ! 

How  like  a  sickle  doth  thy  white  arm  reap 

Thy  sheaf  of  sorrow !    Ah,  thou  dost  not  weep 
Alone,  sweet  Iphigenia!  nor  implore 
The  sterile  heavens  to  blow  from  Aulis'  shore 

A  breath  of  saving  o'er  the  blighted  deep ! 


98  Golden  Songs  of 

Daughter  of  sacrifice !  thy  tender  grace, 
Thy  tragic  story  tremulous  with  tears, 

Is  more  than  legend  now !  Thy  lovely  face 

Shines  like  a  star  through  all  the  shadowed  night; 

Thy  voice  hath  touched  anew  the  vanished  years, 
Kindling  Time's  ancient  silences  with  light! 

Charles  Phillips. 


TO  PALEOLITHIC  MAN 
(Restored  in  a  Museum) 

MY  FATHER!   Lo,  thy  hundred  thousand  years 
Are  but  as  yesterday  when  it  is  past. 
Today  thy  very  voice  is  in  mine  ears ; 
On  mine  own  mirror  is  thy  likeness  cast. 

Thy  sap  it  is  in  these  my  veins  runs  green ; 
Thine  are  these  knitted  thews  of  bone  and  skin; 
This  cushioned  width  lay  once  thy  ribs  between, 
As  my  heart  did  with  thine  its  work  begin. 

Be  it  however  contoured,  this  frail  cup 
That  holds  the  stuff  and  substance  of  my  brain, 
From  thy  prognathic  skull  was  moulded  up; 
Do  I  not  share  with  thee  the  mark  of  Cain? 

Not  I  should  shudder  at  the  thickened  neck, 
Full  from  thy  shoulders  to  thy  sloping  head; 


The  Golden  State  99 

It  bore  the  brunt  of  many  a  rout  and  wreck 
That  spared  the  slender  loins  whence  I  was  bred. 

Nor  should  I  blush,  my  Father,  seeing  how 

Thy  furry  jowl  is  kindred  to  my  cheek; 

It  shuts  upon  a  tongue,  I  mind  me  now, 

Which  stuttering  spent  itself  that  I  might  speak. 

I  and  my  brothers  roam  this  rich  Today 
Unhindered,  unafraid,  because  thy  feet, 
Stone-bruised  and  heavy  with  primordial  clay, 
God's  winepress  trod  to  make  our  vintage  sweet. 

What  then,  Progenitor  ?    Shall  we  repay 
Such  debt  in  any  coin  but  filial  love  ? 
Leave  thy  defenseless  carcass  on  display 
With  fossil  horse  and  pterodactyl  dove? 

For  thee  no  epic  and  no  monument ! 
For  lesser  hero,  meaner  pioneer, 
Our  bays  and  honors;  shall  thy  sons  consent 
To  leave  thee  standing  naked,  nameless,  here? 

Fanny  Hodges  Newman. 


100  Golden  Songs  of 

"THE  CAULDRON" 
(At  La  Jolla) 

HERE  on  the  swart  and  deeply-angled  shore 
The  great  waves  gather  up  their  final  breath 
And  fling  themselves  to  swift  and  stony  death; 
The  creamed  streams  that  billows  were  before, 
Ooze  o'er  the  purple  rocks,  and  foaming,  pour 
In  hurried  cascades  down,  far  down  beneath, 
To  seek  in  placid  deeps  their  burial  sheath. 
So  fierce  desires  would  wreck  my  life;  for  more, 
More  madly  in  the  cauldron  of  my  soul 
Come  they  to  threaten  all  the  imposed  bounds. 
To  death,  O  Lord  of  Lords,  let  them  be  tossed! 
Let  not  the  tragic  stars  see  them  their  goal 
Reach  and  destroy  my  peace.     Where  no  storm 

sounds, 
Beneath  life's  plangent  sea,  let  them  be  lost. 

Francis  Walker. 


TO  MY  MOUTAIN 

O  MY  Mountain,  my  Mountain, 
Enveloped  in  your  cloak  of  snow, 
Can  you  hear? 


The  Golden  State  101 


Temple  of  my  night, 
Cradle  of  my  day, 
Can  you  hear? 


I  warn  you  of  the  braggart  of  the  sky, 

The  Sun!  The  Sun! 

He  outruns  my  warning  words 

To  steal  your  snows, 

O  my  Mountain,  my  Mountain. 

Great  body-guard  of  God  — 
Can  you  hear  ? 

Mahdah  Payson. 


WIND  OF  THE  SOUTH 

TENDER  you  were  and  shy,  wind  of  the  South. 

You  blew  me  kisses  from  my  lover's  mouth; 
With  your  caressing  touch  upon  my  cheek 
I  closed  my  eyes,  and  thought  I  heard  him  speak. 

Wind  of  the  South,  cruel  you  are  and  bold, 
In  your  wild  cries  my  wretchedness  is  told; 
Beyond  the  frozen  sails  and  icy  spars 
My  love  is  dead,  beneath  the  Southern  stars. 
Jennie  Me  Bride  Butler. 


102  Golden  Songs  of 


CALIFORNIA  OF  THE  SOUTH 

THE  land  is  a  garden  of  glamour,  where  passes 
Each  breeze  on  its  wandering  way  to  the  sea ; 

And  prodigal,  scatters  the  sweets  it  amasses 

From  orange  groves  yielding  their  stores  tenderly, 

To  be  breathed  back  again  to  the  tremulous  grasses 
Through  which  Zephyr  ranges;  —  a  light  lover, 
he! 

'Tis  the  garden  of  Eden;  high  hedges  enclose  it 

Of  lime  and  of  cypress;  a  still  spirit  rests 
'Neath  the  veil  of  the  mountains  (the  hushed  silence 

shows  it), 
And  he  broods  the  sweet  valley  to  sleep  on  his 

breast. 
This  is  a  sanctuary;  —  every  bird  knows  it, 

And  knows  the  broad  landscape  was  made  for  his 
nest. 

For  hark  how  the  hedges  and  bushes  are  ringing 
With  madrigals!  Mark  how  the  jubilant  trees 

Are  budding  with  birds  and  a-blossom  with  singing; 
And  look!  from  each  spray  a  small  singer  of 
glees 

Is  trilling  and  trilling  his  skyward'  song  flinging ;  — 
Sure  Italy's  skies  are  not  bluer  than  these ! 


The  Golden  State  103 

Here  rain  in  swift  showers  soft  tropical  flowers 

Sweet  somnolent  scents  on  the  tropical  air; 
Lavish  roses  have  reared  them  a  riotous  bower, 
Flaunting  crimson  and  gold  their  gray  gonfalons 

flare, 
And  the  heart  of  each  rose  and  the  heart  of  each 

hour 

Shows  the  last-bloomed  the  rarest,  where  each  still 
was  rare. 

This  is  the  land  of  the  poet's  desire; 

This  is  the  Beautiful's  indwelling  place; 
Land  of  the  new  dawn  and  late  sunset's  fire, 

Lo,  she  laughs  like  a  child  in  the  grim  East's 

face! 
And  a  thousand  years  shall  be  born  and  expire 

Ere  her  youth  shall  have  dimmed  its  immortal 

Grace  Ellery  Chanmng. 


THE  CAMPFIRE 

UNTIL  that  eve  I  never  knew  you; 

It  had  been  weariest  of  days, 
Some  homely  trivial  errand  drew  you 

Into  my  campfire's  blaze. 
You,  who  like  me  had  paused  to  rest 

Upon  the  trail  of  your  far  quest. 


104  Golden  Songs  of 

You  knelt  to  stir  the  sullen  embers ; 

The  light  caught  cheek  and  chin  and  brow — 
How  dear  the  soul  of  love  remembers! 

Why  I  can  see  you  even  now  — 
The  wearied  mystery  of  your  eyes, 
Deep  shadowed  as  the  circling  skies; 

Can  see  the  desert,  silent,  lonely, 
The  camp  beside  its  brackish  well, 

All  dream-like,  dim,  in  which  two  only 
Seemed  set  apart  by  some  strange  spell. 

Within  a  magic  ring  of  light 

Just  you  and  I :  outside  the  night ! 

Margaret  Adelaide  Wilson. 


AS  I  CAME  DOWN  MOUNT  TAMALPAIS 

As  I  came  down  Mount  Tamalpais, 

To  North  the  fair  Sonoma  hills 
Lay  like  a  trembling  thread  of  blue 

Beneath  a  sky  of  daffodils; 
Through  tules  green  a  silver  stream 

Ran  South  to  meet  the  tranquil  bay, 
Whispering  a  dreamy,  tender  tale 

Of  vales  and  valleys  far  away. 


The  Golden  State  105 

As  I  came  down  Mount  Tamalpais, 

To  South  the  city  brightly  shone, 
Touched  by  the  sunset's  good-night  kiss 

Across  the  golden  ocean  blown ; 
I  saw  its  hills,  its  tapering  masts, 

I  almost  heard  its  tramp  and  tread, 
And  saw  against  the  sky  the  cross 

Which  marks  the  City  of  the  Dead. 

As  I  came  down  Mount  Tamalpais, 

To  East  San  Pablo's  water  lay, 
Touched  with  a  holy  purple  light, 

The  benediction  of  the  day; 
No  ripple  on  its  twilight  tide, 

No  parting  of  its  evening  veil, 
Save  dimly  in  the  far-off  haze 

One  dreamy,  yellow  sunset  sail. 

As  I  came  down  Mount  Tamalpais, 

To  West  Heaven's  gateway  opened  wide, 
And  through  it,  freighted  with  day-cares, 

The  cloud-ships  floated  with  the  tide; 
Then  silently  through  stilly  air, 

Starlight  flew  down  from  Paradise, 
Folded  her  silver  wings  and  slept 

Upon  the  slopes  of  Tamalpais. 

Clarence  Urmy. 


106  Golden  Songs  of 


M  CALIFORNIA  SONG 

I  COME  to  you  with  a  gift  in  my  hand, 

A  flower  that  grew  in  a  golden  land, 

A  land  on  whose  head  is  a  poppy  crown 

And  the  scent  of  the  blossoms  is  wafted  down 

To  the  amber  bay  and  the  topaz  sea 

And  the  sun-god's  grave  by  the  cocoa  tree. 

I  come  to  you  with  a  flower  whose  face 
Is  the  zenith  of  beauty,  the  acme  of  grace; 
There  are  dreams  in  its  eyes  and  the  song  on  its  lips 
Is  the  lullaby  song  of  the  shadow  that  slips 
O'er  the  tall  purple  mountain  that  watches  like  Fate 
The  silver  sails  threading  the  fair  Golden  Gate. 

I  come  to  you  with  a  flower  whose  breath 
Brings  freedom  from  fear  of  disaster  and  death, 
For  though  El  Dorado  be  blackened,  and  rock 
Through  the  demon  of  fire  and  the   earthquake 

shock, 
There  is  peace  in  the  hearts  of  her  children  who 

know 

The  scent  of  the  fields  where  the  poppies  grow. 

Clarence  Urmy. 


The  Golden  State  107 


FOREST  COUPLETS 

BENEATH  a  redwood  let  me  lie 
And  all  its  harmonies  untie : 

Melodic  sequences  of  spray 

And  bough  and  trunk  in  rich  array ; 

Chromatic  hue  and  tint  and  shade 
Of  beryl,  emerald  and  jade; 

Cadenzas,  day-dreams  that  enfold 
The  padres,  argonauts  and  gold ; 

Soft  passing  notes,  the  tones  that  tell 
Of  poppy-field  and  mission  bell; 

With  sea-wind  cadences  that  blow 
In  dominant  arpeggio, 

Resolving  into  chords  full  blent 
Of  solace,  peace,  and  calm  content. 

Clarence  Urmy. 


108  Golden  Songs  of 


NIGHT  IN  CAMP 

FIERCE  burns  our  fire  of  driftwood;  overhead 
Gaunt  maples  lift  long  arms  against  the  night; 
The  stars  are  sobbing, —  sorrow-shaken,  white, 
And  high  they  hang,  or  show  sad  eyes  grown  red 
With  weeping  for  their  queen  —  the  moon  just  dead. 
Weird   shadows   backward   reel   when   tall   and 

bright 

The  broad  flames  stand  and  fling  a  golden  light 
On  mats  of  soft,  green  moss  around  us  spread. 
A  sudden  breeze  comes  in  from  off  the  sea, 
The  vast  old  forest  draws  a  troubled  breath, 

A  leaf  awakens;  up  the  shores  of  sand 
The  black  tide,  silver-lipped,  creeps  noiselessly; 
The  camp  fire  dies,  then  silence  deep  as  death, 
The  darkness  pushing  down  upon  the  land. 

Herbert  Bash  ford. 


MORNING  IN  CAMP 

A  BED  of  ashes  and  a  half -burned  brand 

Now  mark  the  spot  where  last  night's  campfire 

sprung 
And  licked  the  dark  with  slender  scarlet  tongue; 

The  sea  draws  back  from  shores  of  yellow  sand 


The  Golden  State  109 

Nor  speaks  lest  he  awake  the  sleeping  land ; 
Tall  trees  grow  out  of  shadows;  high  among 
Their  somber  boughs  one  clear,  sweet  song  is 

sung; 

In  deep  ravine  by  drooping  cedars  spanned 
All  drowned  in  glory,  a  flying  pheasant's  whirr 
Rends  morning's  solemn  hush;  gray  rabbits  run 

Across  the  covered  glade;  then  far  away 
Upon  a  hill,  each  huge,  expectant  fir 

Holds  open  arms  in  welcome  to  the  sun, — 
Great  pulsing  heart  of  bold  advancing  day. 

Herbert  Bashford. 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

THE  Sierra-rock,  a  tavern  for  the  clouds,  refuses 
to  let  Fame  and  Gold  sojourn. — 

Down  the  Heaven  by  the  river-road,  an  Angel's 
ethereal  shadow  strays. — 

The  Genii  in  the  valley-cavern  consult  in  silence  the 
message  of  the  Heavens. 

O  Lord,  show  unto  mortals  thy  journal  —  the  bal 
ance  of  Glory  and  Decay! 

Yone  Noguchi. 


110  Golden  Songs  of 


TO  WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 

DEAD  !  and  we  gaze,  unseeing,  on  your  bier, 

Where  westward  thunders  roll; 
But  though  you  die,  your  living  song  is  clear 

(Prometheus  lights  your  goal) ; 
?And  till  we  too  are  taken,  we  can  hear 

:That  music  from  your  soul ! 

Herbert  Heron. 


SANTA  BARBARA  BEACH 

Now  while  the  sunset  offers, 
Shall  we  not  take  our  own : 

The  gems,  the  blazing  coffers, 
The  seas,  the  shores,  the  throne? 

The  sky-ships,  radiant-masted, 
Move  out,  bear  low  our  way. 

Oh,  Life  was  dark  while  it  lasted, 
Now  for  enduring  day. 

Now  with  the  world  far  under, 
To  draw  up  drowning  men 

And  show  them  lands  of  wonder 
Where  they  may  build  again. 


The  Golden  State 111 

There  earthly  sorrow  falters, 

There  longing  has  its  wage; 
There  gleam  the  ivory  altars 

Of  our  lost  pilgrimage. 

—  Swift    flame — then    shipwrecks    only 

Beach  in  the  ruined  light; 
Above  them  reach  up  lonely 

The  headlands  of  the  night. 

A  hurt  bird  cries  and  flutters 

Her  dabbled  breast  of  brown; 
LThe  Western  wall  unshutters 

To  fling  one  last  rose  down. 

A  rose,  a  wild  light  after — 

And  life  calls  through  the  years, 

"Who  dreams  my  fountain's  laughter 
Shall  feed  my  wells  with  tears." 

Ridgely  Torrence. 


THE  CREED  OF  DESIRE 

STILL  to  be  sure  of  the  Dawn — 
Still  to  be  glad  for  the  Sea — 
Still  to  know  fire  of  the  blood: 
God  keep  these  gifts  in  me! 


112  Golden  Songs  of 

Then  —  I  shall  cleave  the  dark! 
Then  I  shall  breast  the  redoubt! 
Then  I  shall  Glory  the  Lord  — 
And  go  down  to  the  Grave 
With  a  shout ! 

Bruce  Porter. 


A  CALIFORNIA  EASTER  MASS 

Now  burn  the  poppy-lamps  of  Spring 
Along  the  lifting  aisles  of  grain; 

Before  the  mystic  offering, 

The  earth-warm  breathing  censers  swing 

And  choirs  innumerable  sing 
The  gloria  of  the  Born-again. 

Charles  K.  Field. 


THE  YEARS 

EACH  life  is  like  a  changing  flower; 

Like  petals,  pale  or  colored  free, 
The  years  drop  softly,  hour  by  hour, 

And  leave  rich  seeds  of  memory! 

Charles  K.  Field. 


The  Golden  State  113 


WESTERN  BLOOD 

MY  TOWER  faces  south  and  north, 
And  east  it  opens  wide, 
But  not  a  window  pane  looks  forth 
Upon  the  western  side. 

I  gaze  out  north  on  city  roofs, 
And  south  on  city  smoke, 
And  to  the  east  are  throbbing  hoofs, 
The  rush  of  city  folk ; 

But  not  a  ray  of  western  light 
May  fall  across  my  work, 
No  crevice  opens  to  the  night 
Where  western  eyes  may  lurk; 

My  crowded  days  are  spent  in  quest 
Of  eager  city  things, 
And  when  the  little  birds  fly  west, 
I  would  not  hear  their  wings. 

But  they  who  once  have  climbed  the  Town, 
When  daylight  lingered  late, 
And  watched  the  western  sun  go  down 
Athwart  the  burnished  Gate, 


114  Golden  Songs  of 

And  felt  the  rolling  fogs  descend, 

And  seen  the  lupine  blown, 

And  known  what  things  a  western  friend 

May  offer  to  his  own, 

Ah,  they  can  never  hush  for  long — 
He  knew  what  would  be  best 
Who  built  my  tower  high  and  strong, 
And  closed  it  to  the  west. 

Juliet  Wilbur  Tompkins. 


LET  US  GO  HOME  TO  PARADISE 

LET  us  go  home  to  Paradise, 

O  my  adored! 

There  are  neither  flaming  sword 
Prohibitive,  nor  angel's  eyes 
Jealous  of  our  happiness. 
O  from  this  valley  of  distress 
Look  up,  look  back  to  Paradise ! 

There  gentle  mists  are  drawn  along 

The  margins  of  the  deep, 
And  up  the  quiet  valleys  creep, 
There  the  pines  with  low  sweet  song 
Murmur  at  morning  half  asleep, 


The  Golden  State  115 

Trailing  through  each  fingered  bow 
The  gray  fog  on  the  hill's  brow. 

Our  beautiful  peninsula 

Cannot  rejoice 

For  all  its  forest,  and  the  voice 
Of  breaking  waves  in  Carmel  Bay, 
Until  we  come;  the  cypresses 
Grieve  above  the  dove-gray  seas 
For  us  their  lovers  far  away. 

Robinson  Jeffers. 


WINDY  MORNING 
(Catalina  Island,   1913) 

Dawn  with  a  jubilant  shout 

Leaps  on  the  shivering  sea 
And  puffs  the  last  pale  planet  out 
And  scatters  the  flame-bright  clouds  about 

Like  the  leaves  of  a  frost-bitten  tree. 

Does  a  gold  seed  split  the  rosy  husk  ? 

Nay,  a  sword  ...  a  shield  ...  a  spear ! 
The  kindler  of  all  fires  that  burn 
Deep  in  the  day's  cerulean  urn 
Rides  up  across  the  clear 
And  tramples  down  the  cowering  dusk 
Like  a  strong-browed  charioteer. 


116  Golden  Songs  of 

Blow  out  and  far  away 

The  dim,  the  dull,  the  dun; 
Prosper  the  crimson,  blight  the  gray, 
And  blow  us  clean  of  yesterday, 
Stern  morning  fair  begun, 

Till  the  earth  is  an  opal  bathed  in  dew, 
Flashing  with  emerald,  gold,  and  blue, 
Held  where  the  skies  wash  through  and 

through 
High  up  against  the  sun. 

Odell  Shepard. 


NERO 

THIS  Rome,  that  was  the  toil  of  many  men, 
The  consummation  of  laborious  years  — 
Fulfillment's  crown  to  visions  of  the  dead, 
And  image  of  the  wide  desire  of  kings  — 
Is  made  by  darkling  dream's  effulgency, 
Fuel  of  vision,  brief  embodiment 
Of  wanton  will  and  wastage  of  the  strong, 
Fierce  ecstasy  of  one  tremendous  hour, 
When  ages  piled  on  ages  were  aflame 
To  all  the  years  behind  and  years  to  be. 

Yet  any  sunset  were  as  much  as  this 

Save  for  the  music  forged  by  hands  of  fire 

From  out  the  hard,   straight  silences  which  bind 


The  Golden  State 117 

Dull  Matter's  tongueless  mouth  —  a  music  pierced 
With  the  tense  voice  of  life,  more  quick  to  cry 
Its  agony  —  and  save  that  I  believed 
The  radiance  redder  for  the  blood  of  men. 
Destruction  hastens  and  intensifies 
The  process  that  is  beauty,  manifests 
Ranges  of  form  unknown  before,  and  gives 
Motion  and  voice  and  hue,  where  otherwise 
Bleak  inexpressiveness  has  leveled  all. 

If  one  create,  there  is  the  lengthy  toil, 
The  labored  days  and  years  toward  an  end 
Less  than  the  measure  of  desire,  mayhap, 
After  the  sure  consuming  of  all  strength, 
And  strain  of  faculties  that  otherwhere 
Were  loosed  upon  enjoyment;  and  at  last 
Remains  to  one,  capacity  nor  power 
For  pleasure  in  the  thing  that  he  hath  made. 
But  on  destruction  hangs  but  little  use 
Of  time  nor  faculty,  but  all  is  turned 
To  the  one  purpose,  unobstructed,  pure, 
Of  sensuous  rapture  and  observant  joy; 
And  from  the  intensities  of  death  and  ruin 
One  draws  a  heightened  and  completer  life, 
And  both  extends  and  vindicates  himself. 

I  would  I  were  a  god,  with  all  the  scope 
Of  attributes  that  are  the  essential  core 


118  Golden  Songs  of 

Of  godhead,  and  its  visibility. 

I  am  but  Emperor,  and  hold  awhile 

The  power  to  hasten  death  upon  its  way, 

And  cry  a  halt  to  worn  and  lagging  life 

For  others,  but  for  mine  own  self  may  not 

Delay  the  one,  nor  bid  the  other  speed. 

There  have  been  many  kings,  and  they  are  dead, 

And  have  no  power  in  death  save  what  the  wind 

Confers  upon  their  blown  and  brainless  dust 

To  vex  the  eyeballs  of  posterity. 

But  were  I  God,  I  would  be  overlord 
Of  many  kings,  and  were  as  breath  to  guide 
Their  dust  of  destiny.    And  were  I  God, 
Exempt  from  this  mortality  which  clogs 
Perception  and  clear  exercise  of  will, 
What  rapture  it  would  be,  if  but  to  watch 
Destruction  crouching  at  the  back  of  Time, 
The  tongueless  dooms  which  dog  the  traveling  suns, 
The  vampire  Silence  at  the  breast  of  worlds, 
Fire  without  light  that  gnaws  the  base  of  things, 
And  Lethe's  mounting  tide  that  rots  the  stone 
Of  fundamental  spheres.     This  were  enough 
Till  such  time  as  the  dazzled  wings  of  will 
Came  up  with  power's  accession,  scarcely  felt 
For  very  suddenness.    Then  would  I  urge 
The  strong  contention  and  conflicting  might 
Of  chaos  and  creation,  matching  them, 


The  Golden  State  119 

These  immemorial  powers  inimical, 

And  all  their  stars  and  gulfs  subservient  — 

Dynasts  of  Time,  and  anarchs  of  the  dark  — 

In  closer  war  reverseless ;  and  would  set 

New  discord  at  the  universal  core, 

A  Samson-principle  to  bring  it  down 

In  one  magnificence  of  ruin.     Yea, 

The  monster  Chaos  were  mine  unleashed  hound, 

And  all  my  power  Destruction's  own  right  arm. 

I  would  exult  to  mark  the  smouldering  stars 

Renew  beneath  my  breath  their  elder  fire, 

And  feed  upon  themselves  to  nothingness. 

The  might  of  suns,  slow-paced  with  swinging  weight 

Of  myriad  worlds,  were  made  at  my  desire 

One  long  rapidity  of  roaring  light, 

Through  which  the  voice  of  Life  were  audible, 

And  singing  of  the  immemorial  dead 

Whose  dust  is  loosened  into  vaporous  wings 

.With  soaring  wrack  of  systems  ruinous. 

And  were  I  weary  of  the  glare  of  these, 

I  would  tear  out  the  eyes  of  light,  and  stand 

Above  a  chaos  of  extinguished  suns, 

That  crowd  and  grind  and  shiver  thunderously, 

Lending  vast  voice  and  motion,  but  no  ray 

To  the  stretched  silentness  of  blinded  gulfs. 

Thus  would  I  give  my  godhead  space  and  speech 

For  its  assertion,  and  thus  pleasure  it, 


120 Golden  Songs  of 

Hastening  the  feet  of  Time  with  cast  of  worlds 
Like  careless  pebbles,  or  with  shattered  suns 
Brightening  the  aspect  of  Eternity. 

Clark  Ashton  Smith. 


IN  A  GARDEN 
Impressions 

ALONG  my  fence 

The  roses 

Are  a  Ballet  Russe  — 

A  mad  whirl  of  snow  flakes, 

Dancing,  swirling,  glancing,  twirling, 

Under  the  spot  light 

Of  the  sun. 

The  premiere  danseuse, 

A  golden-eyed  Cherokee, 

In  blazing  white, 

Pirouettes  and  poses  among  the  roses, 

Gloriously  full 

Of  the  passion 

Of  Spring. 

A  White  Ins 

Tall  and  clothed  in  samite, 
Chaste  and  pure, 


The  Golden  State 121 

In  smooth  armor  — 

Your  head  held  high 

In  its  helmet 

Of  silver: 

Jean  D'Arc  riding 

Among  the  sword  blades! 

Has  Spring  for  you 
Wrought  visions, 
As  it  did  for  her 
In  a  garden  ? 

Stocks 

Fluffy,  beribboned  ladies 

In  a  row, 

You  have  pinned  rosettes, 

Rosettes  of  chiffon, 

Pink  and  mauve, 

Purple  and  white, 

White  and  deeper  red, 

Pinned  them  here  and  there 

About  your  hats 

And  your  ruffled  green  petticoats. 

The  jonquils 

Across  the  path, 

Adore  your  flutterings  but 

Shy,  young  things, 

They  can  only  bow  stiffly. 


122  Golden  Songs  of 

Marigolds 

When  Spring  passed 

This  evening 

Her  head  was  so  turned 

By  the  young  moon, 

She  left  her  purse  strings  untied 

And  a  lot  of  gold  guineas 

Fell  in  my  garden. 

Pauline  B.  Barrington. 


YOUTH'S  SONGS 

THEY  lift  upon  the  first  rush  of  bright  wings 

Into  the  heaven  of  singing;  and  they  dare 

To  glimpse  unseen  and  utter  tacit  things, 

And  with  unstained  hands  from  the  temple  tear 

The  inmost  veil  to  find  if  truth  be  there. 

They  chant  in  darkness  with  unbated  breath 

The  age-old  exorcisms  of  despair  — 

How  may  we  sing  who  once  have  walked  with 

death? 

O  Poet,  Poet,  lingering,  lingering  late 
To  dream  fulfilment  of  star-high  desire, 
A  little  longer  and  in  vain  you  wait 
[The  flush  of  mystery,  the  cloak  of  fire; 


The  Golden  State  123 

Youth's  songs  have  wings,  but  after-words  shall  be 
As  gray  leaves  fallen  to  the  wild  white  sea. 

Maxwell  Anderson. 


AMATEURS 

ALOFT  among  the  gallery  gods, 

Whose  peering  faces  crowd  the  night 

With  muttered  breath  and  mocking  nods, 
There  waits  the  Keeper  of  the  Light. 

From  out  the  pit  the  roll  and  crash 

Of  music  comes,  and  through  the  dark 

The  spot  pours  down  a  blinding  flash 
Upon  its  momentary  mark. 

It  is  Pierrette  that  flutters  there 
Alone,  until  there  comes  Pierrot ;  — 

Comes  hissing,  laughter  and  despair, 
And  darkness  blots  them  as  they  go. 

They  tried,  O  God,  how  hard  they  tried ; 

Though  loveliness  was  theirs,  and  grace, 
The  Keeper  of  the  Light  denied 

A  moment  more  to  their  embrace. 

Geroid  Robinson. 


124  Golden  Songs  of 


THE  SONG  OF  THOMAS  THE  RHYMER 

You  have  taken  the  sun  and  the  stars  from  Heaven 
With  your  dusky  eyes  that  glow  like  wine, 
You  have  taken  the  sweetness  from  the  rose 
With  the  touch  of  your  warm  red  lips  on  mine. 
You  have  stilled  the  song  in  the  meadowlark's  throat 
With  your  voice  that  holds  all  melody, 
And  the  fear  is  heavy  upon  my  heart 
That  you  have  taken  my  God  from  me ! 

Marjorie  Charles  D  rise  oil. 


LUCK 

LET  there  live  aye  a  lad's  laugh  in  the  throat  of 

you  — 

Let  you  aye  have  a  gay  swing  to  the  coat  of  you  — 
Let  there  aye  be  one  poorer  to  borrow  a  groat  of 

you! 

Let  you  find  hands  of  dear  women  to  mother  you  — 
Let  you  find  shoulders  of  comrades  that  brother 

you  — 
Let  you  find  arms  of  the  small  ones  to  smother  you ! 


The  Golden  State 125 

Let  folk  be  the  happier  just  for  the  nod  of  you  — 
Let  you  be  in  love  with  the  road  that  is  trod  of 

you — 
Let  Death  be  a  step  betwix  you  and  the  God  of 

you! 

Dare  Stark. 


MATER  DOLOROSA 

LAST  night  I  heard  the  keenin'  at  Patrick  Connell's 

wake, 
"O  poor  lad,  O  good  lad — that  you  should  have 

to  go; 
But  then  the  Lord  has  given,  an*  sure  the  Lord  may 

take — 
Let  Mary  help  his  mother  to  bear  the  bitter  woe ! " 

At  dawn  I  heard  the  fishermen  a-talkin'  on  the  quay, 
"A  fine  lad,  a  clean  lad  —  that  God  may  rest 

his  soul; 
"'Twas  well  he  knew  the  fishin'  banks,  'twas  well 

he  loved  the  sea  — 
Let  Mary  help  his  mother  to  bear  the  bitter  dole ! 

At  noon  I  saw  him  buried  upon  the  windy  hill ; 

I  saw  the  black  earth  cover  the  coffin  from  her 
sight  — 


126  Golden  Songs  of 

O  Mary,  in  your  mercy,  be  kindly  to  her  still 

And  pray  to  God  her  heart  will  break,  that  she 
may  die  tonight ! " 

James  Leo  Duff. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN  CAPISTRANO 
First  Bell 

AVE  Maria  Purissima !    Hear ! 
Seventeen  ninety  and  six  was  the  year 
When  I  was  hung  in  the  tower  of  stone, 
Singing  aloft  in  a  solemn  tone 
Sending  my  summons  for  miles  around 
That  all  might  list  to  the  solemn  sound — • 
Kling,  klang,  clatter  and  ring, 
Thus  the  bells  of  the  mission  sing. 

Second  Bell 

Diva  Jesus  clanged  my  cry 

When  Padre  Fuster  hung  me  high, 

And  my  metal  tongue  in  its  brazen  throat 

Sounded  its  first  triumphant  note, 

Chimed  with  my  mate  in  a  mighty  din 

When  the  vespers  were  solemnly  chanted  within, 

Kling,  klang,  clatter  and  ring, 

Thus  the  bells  in  the  mission  sing. 


The  Golden  State  127 


Third  Bell 

Hail,  O  holy  San  Rafael, 

I  proudly  pealed  in  a  silver  knell 

When  high  in  the  belfry  aloft  I  hung 

And  a  note  was  struck  with  my  eager  tongue, 

Heard  by  the  Indian  mother  and  child, 

By  soldier  stern  and  by  padre  mild  — 

Kling,  klang,  clatter  and  ring, 

Thus  the  bells  of  the  mission  sing. 

All  the  Bells 

Hail,  O  Holy  Mother  — hear! 
Thus  we  all  pealed  for  many  a  year, 
Called  the  vaquero  away  from  his  stock, 
Summoned  the  herder  to  leave  his  flock, 
Indian  mother  and  Mexican  maid 
Fondly  the  summons  to  prayer  obeyed; 

Till,  ah,  we  called  on  an  evil  hour, 

For  the  temblor  came  and  it  rent  our  tower, 

And  down  we  fell  with  a  crash  and  a  clang, 

With  the  cries  of  the  stricken  the  sad  church  rang. 

Then  they  lifted  us  up  to  toll  for  the  dead, 

And  solemn  and  slow  were  the  notes  we  said; 

Toll,  toll,  stifled  and  slow  — 

Thus  the  bells  voiced  a  people's  woe. 


128  Golden  Songs  of 

Such  were  the  songs  of  our  ancient  prime, 

But  O  the  havoc  and  waste  of  time  — 

For  the  years,  the  years  with  their  pitiless  train 

Have  heard  our  pleadings  and  prayers  in  vain ; 

They  have  levelled  the  graves  in  the  church  yard 

lone, 
They  have   broken   the  arches   and   scattered   the 

stone  — 

Clatter  and  ring,  clatter  and  ring! 
Our  throats  are  cracked  and  they  seldom  sing. 

Charles  Keeler. 


PESCADERO  PEBBLES 

CRASH  of  the  crystal  surf  all  night  on  the  wind-wild 
beaches, 

Boom  of  the  billows  that  break  day-long  on  the  peb 
bled  reaches, 

Roar  of  the  riotous  waves  on  rock  ridges  shattered 
and  sundered, 

Moaning  and  sobbing  and  shouting  the  turbulent 
elements  thundered. 

Idly  I  lay  on  the  sea-rim,  the  pebbles  I  dropped 

through  my  fingers, 
Jewels  of  jade  and  of  beryl,  with  opaline  sea-tint 

that  lingers 


The  Golden  State  129 

Long  as  the  wild  waves  wet  them  where  mermaidens 

tossed  them  away, 
Sparkling  in  beauty  neglected  to  glow  in  the  salt 

sea  spray. 

Out  of  the  ocean  of  longing,  whose  shore  is  the 
heart-rim  dreary, 

Peereth  a  wild  mermaiden  through  turbulent  sea- 
mist  eerie, 

Wine-red  carnelians  and  crystals  translucent  at  my 
feet  flinging, 

And  salt  tears  wet  them  and  leave  them  aglow  by 
the  mad  waves  singing. 

Charles  Keeler. 

THE  CHILD  HEART 

THE  shy  flowers  smile  in  the  face  of  their  father 

the  bountiful  Bright  One, 
The  wild  birds  chant  his  praise  when  he  smiles  with 

the  blessing  of  day; 
The  child- folk  follow  the  wood-things  into  the  wild 

with  laughter, 

And  you  and  I,  beloved,  shall  follow  them  all  away 
Into  the  fields  of  faery,  unto  the  haunted  wood, 
And  serve  them  ever  with  gladness,  and  learn  to  be 

pure  and  good. 

Charles  Keeler. 


130  Golden  Songs  of 


MIDSUMMER  EAST  AND  WEST 


THE  meadows  are  green  and  sweet  with  clover, 
The  sun  shines  hot  and  the  clouds  drift  over 

The  deep  skies'  measureless  blue. 
A  cooling  breath  and  the  rain  drops  patter 
On  the  dusty  road,  and  the  light  winds  scatter 

The  hurrying  leaves,  and  strew 
The  glistening  grass  with  dead  rose  petals; 
A  gurgle  and  rush  and  the  water  settles 

In  many  a  sunbright  pool. 
Anon  is  a  flash  and  a  note  of  thunder, 
And  the  forest  king  lies  rent  asunder, 

And  the  woods  are  dim  and  cool. 


ii 

The  hills  are  brown  and  the  fields  are  yellow; 
The  barley  blowing,  the  ripe  fruit  mellow ; 

The  sun  beats  warm  on  the  road. 
Now  days  grow  long  and  the  skies  are  cloudless, 
And  nights  are  bright  with  the  fair  moon  shroudless ; 

Dry  rocks  where  the  river  flowed, 
The  throstle  hides  and  sings  in  the  hedges, 
The  round-eyed  toad  peeps  up  from  the  sedges 

That  droop  by  the  shallow  streams. 


The  Golden  State  131 

The  leaves  are  stirred  by  the  Southwind's  sallies, 
The  mountains  sleep  and  the  misty  valleys, 
And  the  world  is  wrapped  in  dream. 

Virna  Woods, 


YOSEMITE  STROPHES 
The  Valley 

GRAY  and  bleakly  majestic,  the  bastioned  walls  of  the 

valley, 
Springing  sheer  to  the  sky,  dwarf  the  great  pine  trees 

beneath. 

Bridal  Veil  Falls 

White  from  a  notch  of  the  cliffs  you  slide,  oh  sylph 
of  the  mountains, 

Easily,  lissomly  down,  floating  on  delicate  feet. 

Bright  from  your  shoulders  trail  the  folds  of  a  robe 
of  jewels, 

Softening  to  film  as  they  fall,  looped  with  a  rain 
bow  loop. 

Other  Waterfalls 

Hung  on  the  eaves  of  the  world,  the  thin  ribbon 
dangles  and  flutters; 


132  Golden  Songs  of 

Broadly  the  Vernal  spreads  its  mantel  of  feathery 

spray; 
Headlong  Yosemite  leaps,  and  pauses,  and  leaps 

again  forward; 
Cliff-overshadowed  Nevada  gleams  from  the  dark 

like  a  wraith. 

The  Big  Trees  of  Mariposa 

Cinnamon-silver  they  rise, —  the  trunks  of  the  titan 

sequoias ; 
Centuries  blossom  and  fall,  fadeless  their  branches 

endure. 

Conclusion:  Yosemite  Remembered 

Grave  and  remote  and  austere,  you  haunt  me  with 

beauty,  oh  valley, — 
Beauty  undreamed  of  before,  now  all  a  dream  or  a 

star. 

Charlts  Wharton  Stork. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 

WHAT  wrecks  of  Time  and  Storm  are  crumbling 

here! 

The  rocks  that  seemed  eternal  shattered  lie, 
And  pines  that  sang  their  glorias  to  the  sky 

In  mute  dismemberment  stretch  prone  and  drear. 


The  Golden  State  133 

Beneath  this  gloomful  shade,  wide-spreading  near, 
What  hidden  thoughts  in  loneliness  may  sigh, 
What  spirits  of  the  past  may  wander  by, 

Their  cheeks  bedewed  with  unavailing  tear! 

But  look  beyond :  the  towering  summits  glow 
With  grand  magnificence  of  dazzling  light, 

That  tints  with  rainbow  hues  their  bosoming  snow. 

And  as  we  gaze,  a  more  than  mortal  might 
Lifts  the  rapt  soul  from  all  the  glooms  below 

To  faiths  that  blaze  immaculately  bright. 

Edward  Robeson  Taylor. 


IN  TEHACHAPI 

COLD  is  the  wind  upon  the  mountain  side, 
(For  she, —  my  lady, —  she  is  far  from  me), 

White  is  the  snow  and  thick  the  mists  that  hide 
Thy  face,  Tehachapi! 

Stiffly  the  yuccas  stand  in  mantles  white, 
(Garments  unwonted,  carried  shiveringly) , 

While  desert  cactus,  sands,  and  storm  unite, 
Blending  impartially. 

But  not  forever  lingers  Winter  here 

(For  there  is  always  summer  in  the  heart), 

The  South  wind  whispers,  and  the  hills  are  clear, 
The  thick  fog  falls  apart. 


134  Golden  Songs  of 

The  Summer's  gentle  touch  shall  never  fail, — 
(Because, —  my  lady, —  she  will  come  to  me), 

Blue  are  the  skies  beyond  the  mists  that  veil 
Thy  face,  Tehachapi ! 

Daind  Starr  Jordan. 


ST.  JOHN  OF  NEPOMUC 

ONE  summer  I  Columbused  John,  in  Prague,  that 

deadly  Bush  League  town. 
I'd  quit  'em  cold  on  pictures  and  cathedrals  for  a 

while. 
I  hung  around  for  Ma  and  Sis  (Good  Lord,  there 

wasn't  one  they'd  miss  — 
Pale  martyrs  till  you  couldn't  sleep  —  Madonnas  by 

the  mile!). 

I  read  some  dope  in  Baedeker  about  a  tablet  on  the 

bridge, 
And  how  they  slipped  this  poor  old  scout  the  double 

cross  for  fair. 
I'm  off  High  Brow  historic  truck,  but  this  old  boy 

of  Nepomuc, 
You  must  admit  he  was  the  goods.    Believe  me,  he 

was  there! 


The  Golden  State  135 

The  King  was  Wenzel  Number  Four.     John  was 

Sky  Pilot  for  the  Court. 
King  gets  a  hunch  that  Mrs.  King  has  something  on 

her  mind. 
He  goes  to  sleuthing  more  and  more.     He  says  — 

"  Gadzooks,  I'll  have  their  gore !  " 
(Don't  ever  let  'em  string  you  on  that  bunk  that 

love  is  blind!) 

The  Queen  (I'll  bet  she  was  some  queen)  she  tangoes 
blithely  on  her  way, 

And  fails  to  see  the  storm  clouds  on  the  regal  hus 
band's  dome. 

I  got  him  guessed,  that  Wenzel  guy,  harpoons  a 
girl  that's  young  and  spry, 

And  tries  to  seal  her  up  for  life  in  the  Old  People's 
Home! 

The  way  I  had  it  figured  out  she  married  him  to 

please  her  folks : 
"Our  son-in-law,  the  King,  you  know!"    (Some 

speed!  I  guess  that's  poor?) 
So,  when  she  sights  a  Maiden's  Dream,  some  real 

live  wire  that's  made  the  team 
Well,  she  sits  up  and  notices,  like  any  girl.     Why, 

sure! 

Old  Wenzel  can't  quite  cinch  the  case,  but  what  he 
doesn't  know,  he  thinks. 


136  Golden  Songs  of 

The  lump  he  calls  a  heart  congeals  beneath  his  fancy 

vest. 
He  sends  for  poor  old  Father  John  and  says  as 

follows  —  "I  am  on! 
I  merely  lack  a  few  details !    What  hath  the  Queen 

confessed?" 

He  holds  the  court  upon  the  bridge.    "  Speak  up," 

he  says,  "  or  otherwise 
These  spears  will  thrust  you  down  to  death !    Come 

through!     I  am  the  King! 
Kick  in!     What  did  my  spouse  confess?"     The 

Queen  sends  frantic  S.  O.  S.  .  .  . 
Maybe  I  sort  of  dozed,  but  well  —  here's  how  I  got 

this  thing  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  startled  courtiers,  straining  their  ears ; 
He  saw  the  white  Queen  swaying,  striving  to  stand ; 
He  saw  the  soldiers  tensely  gripping  their  spears, 
Waiting  the  King's  command. 
He  heard  a  small  page  drawing  a  sobbing  breath ; 
He  heard  a  bird's  call,  poignant  and  sweet  and  low; 
He  heard  the  rush  of  the  river,  spelling  death, 
Mocking  him,  down  below, 

But  he  only  said,  "  My  Liege, 

To  my  honor  you  lay  siege, 

And  that  fortress  you  can  never  overthrow. " 
He  thought  of  how  he  had  led  them,  all  the  years; 
He  thought  of  how  he  served  them,  death  and  birth; 


The  Golden  State  137 

He  thought  of  healing  their  hates,   stilling  their 

fears  ... 

Humbly,  he  weighed  his  worth. 
He  knew  he  was  leaving  them  far  from  the  goal ; 
He  knew  with  a  deep  joy  it  was  safe  and  wise  .  .  . 
He  knew  that  now  the  pale  Queen's  pitiful  soul 
Would  awake  and  arise, 

And  he  only  said,  "  My  King, 

Every  argument  you  bring 

Merely  sets  my  duty  forth  in  sterner  guise." 

He  felt  the  spears'  points,  merciless,  thrust  him 

down; 

He  felt  the  exquisite,  fierce  glory  of  pain; 
He  felt  the  bright  waves  eager,  reaching  to  drown, 
Engulf  him,  body  and  brain : 

He  sensed  cries,  faint  and  clamorous,  far  behind; 
He  sensed  cool  peace,  and  the  buoyant  arms  of  love; 
He  sensed  like  a  beacon,  clear,  beckoning  kind, 
Five  stars,  floating  above  .  .  . 

To  the  ones  who  watched,  it  seemed 
That  he  slept  .  .  .  and  smiled  .  .  .  and 

dreamed  .  .  . 

"And  the  waters  were  abated  .  .  .  and  the 
dove"  .  .  . 

And  there  I  was  on  that  old  bridge  .  .  .  boob 
Freshman  me  on  that  same  bridge ! 


138  Golden  Songs  of 

The  lazy  river  hummed  and  purred  and  sang  a 

sleepy  song  .  .  . 
Of  course,  I  know  it  listens  queer,  but  gad,  it  was 

so  real  and  near, 
I  stood  there  basking  in  the  sun  for  goodness  knows 

how  long. 

Sometimes  I  see  it  even  now :  I  see  that  little,  lean, 

old  saint 
Put  up  against  the  shining  spears  his  simple  nerve 

and  pluck: 
And  once,  by  Jove,  you  know,  he  came  right  down 

beside  me  in  the  game  .  .  . 
We  know  who  made  the  touchdown  then,  old  John 

of  Nepomuc ! 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell. 


EL  PONIENTE 

Beneath  the  train  the  miles  are  folded  by : 

High  and  still  higher  thro'  the  vibrant  air 

We  mount  and  climb.    Silence  and  brazen  glare; 

Desert  and  sage-brush ;  cactus ;  alkali ; 

Tiny,  low-growing  flowers,  brilliant,  dry; 

A  vanishing  coyote  lean  and  spare, 

Lopes  slowly  homeward  with  a  backward  stare 

To  jig-saw  hills  cut  sharp  against  the  sky. 


The  Golden  State  139 

In  the  hard  turquoise  rides  a  copper  sun : 

Old  hopes  come  thronging  with  an  urge,  a  zest : 

Beside  the  window  gliding  wires  run, 

Binding  two  oceans.     Argosy  and  quest! 

Old  dreams  remembered  to  be  dreamed  and  done! 

It  is  young  air  we  breathe.    This  is  the  West ! 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell. 


IN  THE  MOHAVE 

As  I  rode  down  the  arroyo  through  yuccas  belled 

with  bloom 
I  saw  a  last  year's  stalk  lift  dried  hands  to  the 

light, 

Like  age  at  prayer  for  death  within  a  careless  room, 
Like  one  by  day  o'ertaken,  whose  sick  desire  is 
night. 

And  as  I  rode  I  saw  a  lean  coyote  lying 

All  perfect  as  in  life  upon  a  silver  dune, 
Save  that  his  feet  no  more  could  flee  the  harsh  light's 

spying, 

Save  that  no  more  his  shadow  would  cleave  the 
sinking  moon. 


140  Golden  Songs  of 

O  cruel  land,  where  form  endures,  the  spirit  fled ! 
You  chill  the  sun  for  me  with  your  gray  sphinx's 

smile, 
Brooding  in  the  bright  silence  above  your  captive 

dead, 

Where  beat  the  heart  of  life  so  brief,  so  brief  a 
while ! 

Patrick  Orr. 


THE  WATER  OUZEL 

LITTLE  brown  surf -bather  of  the  mountains! 

Spirit  of  foam,  lover  of  cataracts,  shaking  your 
wings  in  falling  waters ! 

Have  you  no  fear  of  the  roar  and  rush  when  Nevada 
plunges  — 

Nevada,  the  shapely  dancer,  feeling  her  way  with 
slim  white  fingers? 

How  dare  you  dash  at  Yosemite  the  mighty — 

Tall,  white  limbed  Yosemite,  leaping  down,  down 
over  the  cliff? 

Is  it  not  enough  to  lean  on  the  blue  air  of  mountains  ? 

Is  it  not  enough  to  rest  with  your  mate  at  timber- 
line,  in  bushes  that  hug  the  rocks  ? 

Must  you  fly  through  mad  waters  where  the  heaped- 
up  granite  breaks  them? 


The  Golden  State  141 

Must  you  batter  your  wings  in  the  torrent  ? 
Must  you  plunge  for  life  or  death  through  the  foam  ? 

Harriet  Monroe. 


CALIFORNIA  POPPIES 

WITH  dreams,  and  dust  of  dreaming,  sweet  and  dim, 
A  hill  all  song  —  Great  Pan  had  not  disdained  it; 
Gold  cups,  with  sunshine  rippling  o'er  the  rim, 
And   slender    stems    to    break    when    you   have 
drained  it. 

Mary  Carolyn  Dames. 


CALIFORNIA 

BLUE,  blue,  April  blue  — 

A  drift  of  white,  and  a  rift  of  blue, 
A  dream  of  white  and  a  gleam  of  blue, 

Blue,  blue,  blue! 

Gold,  gold,  poppies'  gold, 

A  flare  of  gold,  and  a  glare  of  gold, 
A  hint  of  green,  and  a  glint  of  gold, 

Gold,  gold,  gold! 

Mary  Carolyn  Dames. 


142  Golden  Songs  of 

TO  THE  SUMMER  SUN 
(Coronado) 

GREAT  sun,  why  are  you  pitiless? 
All  day  your  glance  is  hard  and  keen 
Upon  the  hills  that  once  were  green 
Where  summer,  sere  and  passionless, 
Now  lies  brown-frocked  against  the  sky 
And  makes  of  them  her  resting  place 
Since  she  has  drunk  the  valleys  dry. 
You  never  turn  away  your  face 
And  I,  who  love  you,  cannot  bear 
Your  long,  barbaric,  searching  look 
Down  through  the  low  cool  flights  of  air; 
Your  tirelessness  I  cannot  brook, 
For  all  my  body  aches  with  light 
And  you  have  glutted  me  with  sight, 
With  flooding  color  made  me  blind 
To  homely  things  more  soft  and  kind, 
Till  I  have  longed  for  clouds  to  roll 
Between  you  and  my  naked  soul 
O  Great  Beloved,  hide  away 
That  I  may  miss  you  for  a  day! 

Marguerite  Wilkinson. 


The  Golden  State  143 


THE  MOUNTAIN  LILAC 

UPON  the  hills, 

Upon  the  little  foothills, 

Out  there,  beyond  the  pungent  sage  of  the  mesa, 

A  film  of  blue  has  shadowed  the  soft  green 

That  followed  the  rains  of  spring. 

And  into  the  mountains, 

Back  behind  the  foothills, 

The  mist  of  fine,  elusive  blue  is  rising, 

Even  as  smoke  might  rise  from  spreading  fires 

Long  smouldering  near  the  earth. 

The  golden  sun  pitched  camp  upon  the  hills, 

After  the  long  gray  rains  had  washed  them  clean, 

And  where  he  wandered, 

And  where  his  fingers  touched  it, 

The  earth  grown  hot  with  love  of  his  bright  beauty, 

Gave  back  this  smoke 

Soon  to  be  broken  by  the  flaring  flame 

Of  mimulus  and  tarweed. 

Soon  through  this  living  mist, 

This  dear  blue  smoke, 

Will  the  sun-kindled  summer  break  and  burn 

Upon  the  hills. 

Marguerite  Wilkinson. 


144  Golden  Songs  of 


WITH  THE  TREES :  A  PROSE  POEM 

THE  liveoaks  are  my  soldiery,  gnarled  and  resis 
tant,  bearded  with  grey-green,  drooping  mosses. 
They  stand  about  my  dwelling  staunch,  tireless,  un 
flinching,  the  brave  masters  of  today  and  to-morrow. 

The  sweet  pepper  trees  are  my  fellows  and  com 
panions,  full  of  sympathy,  gay,  friendly,  delicate, 
and  tactful,  demanding  neither  too  much  nor  too 
little  of  me,  waving  long  plumes  in  the  breeze,  flash 
ing  bright  berries  in  the  sun.  When  I  go  out  I  seek 
them,  and  when  I  come  in  I  bring  them  with  me. 

The  eucalyptus  trees  are  my  poets  and  idealists, 
stripping  off  ruthlessly  the  binding  withered  bark 
of  today,  ready  to  stand  nude  under  the  sun  in  the 
truth  of  to-morrow,  with  high  borne  heads,  acquies 
cent  in  the  beauty  of  life  and  death. 

The  sycamores  are  my  choice  and  careful  advisers, 
remote  and  infrequently  sought,  demonstrating 
clearly  that  one  way  is  not  so  good  as  another,  profit 
ing  by  the  tears  shed  in  springtime,  taking  the  way 
of  their  nature,  following  the  course  of  the  hill 
streams,  discriminating  between  this  and  that. 

The  olive  trees  are  my  ghosts,  my  memories  of  all 
that  has  been,  lingering  in  silver-grey  presence  near 
the  life  that  now  is,  turning  my  thoughts  back  and 
inward  upon  grey  days  of  pain  and  sadness,  or  silver 
days  of  joy,  that  I  may  remember  and  be  wise. 


The  Golden  State  145 

Below  me  and  about  me  are  also  the  fair  fruit 
trees  that  live  but  for  the  hope  of  fragrant  blossoms, 
that  are  to  me  as  souls  that  strongly  love. 

At  night,  slowly  and  serenely,  rises  the  mist  from 
the  ocean  until  it  encloses  my  hillside  dwelling,  wrap 
ping  me  close  in  tremulous  silence  with  the  trees. 
And  in  the  morning,  comes  the  sun,  the  revealer,  to 
give  us  over  to  each  other  anew. 

Make  me  to  understand  you  aright,  I  beseech  you, 
my  soldiers,  my  friends,  my  poets,  my  prophets, 
my  ghosts,  my  radiant  lovers,  my  trees  fair-favored 
and  at  peace! 

Make  me  hardy  and  determined  as  yourselves,  O 
liveoaks  near  my  dwelling! 

Grant  me  somewhat  of  your  strange,  silent  sym 
pathy,  sweet  pepper  trees ! 

Inspire  me  to  the  quest  of  beauty  and  truth,  be 
loved  eucalyptus! 

Counsel  out  of  many  sorrows  grant  me,  O  distant 
and  sagacious  sycamores! 

Yield  me  prescience  and  wisdom,  O  ghostly  olives ! 

Make  my  love  to  be  fragrant  and  mighty  as  yours, 
dear  trees  of  blossom  and  fruit  burden! 

Give  me  abundantly,  all  of  you,  of  your  mani 
fold  gifts,  for  all  I  am  and  for  all  that  I  give  forth! 

Such  is  my  desire  while  I  am  with  the  trees. 

Marguerite  Wilkinson. 


VALE 

Her  gaunt  sierras  edged  with  fire  or  snow, 
Cutting  the  burnished  sky,  her  steep  on  steep 

Of  tawny-breasted  hills,  her  golden  fields, 
I  might  not  hope  to  keep. 

rAnd  I  may  never  go  again  to  find 
The  topaz  glory  of  her  mellow  days, 

The  blessed  fragrance  of  her  sapphire  nights, 
And  softly  sing  their  praise. 

But  I  shall  keep  her  beauty  to  the  end, 

For  beauty  changes  those  who  love  it  most, — 

And  through  my  heart  the  echoing  rhythms  beat 
Of  waves  upon  her  coast. 


AUTHOR  AND  TITLE  INDEX 

PAGE 

Abalone  Shell,  An Grace  MacGowan  Cooke  75 

Amateurs Geroid  Robinson  123 

ANDERSON,  MAXWELL 

Youth's  Songs 122 

Angelus,  The Bret  Harte  36 

ANONYMOUS 

"  Days  of  'Forty-Nine,  The  " 4 

As  I  Came  Down  Mount  Tamalpais Clarence  Urmy  104 

At  the  Stevenson  Fountain Wallace  Irwin  83 

ATKINS,  DAVID 

Trail,  The 69 

ATKINS,  HENRY 

To  Virginia 71 

AUSTIN,  MARY 

Neither  Spirit  nor  Bird 79 

Ballad  of  the  Gold  Country,  A Helen  Hunt  Jackson  8 

BARRINGTON,  PAULINE  B. 

In  a  Garden 120 

BASHFORD,  HERBERT 

Morning  in  Camp 108 

Night  in  Camp 108 

Bed  of  Fleur-de-Lys,  The Charlotte  Perkins  Gilman  80 

Bells  of  San  Gabriel Charles  Warren  Stoddard  41 

Bells  of  San  Juan  Capistrano,  The Charles  Keeler  126 

Black  Vulture,  The George  Sterling  57 

BURGESS,  GELETT 

Ebb  Tide  at  Noon 92 

Song  of  the  New  Year,  A 92 

BUTLER,  JENNIE  McBRiDE 

Wind  of  the  South 101 

California Ina  Coolbrith  29 

California Mary  Carolyn  Davies  141 

California  Easter  Mass,  A Charles  K.  Field  112 

California  of  the  South Grace  Ellery  Channing  102 

California  Poppies Mary  Carolyn  Davies  141 

California  Song,  A Clarence  Urmy  106 

147 


148  Index 


PAGE 

Campfire,  The ,  Margaret  Adelaide  Wilson  103 

CARRUTH,  WILLIAM  HERBERT 

Each  in  His  Own  Tongue 89 

"  Cauldron,  The  " Francis  Walker  100 

CHANNING,  GRACE  ELLERY 

California  of  the  South. 102 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE 

Coyote 64 

Presidio  Hill 62 

CHENEY,  WARREN 

January  86 

Child  Heart,  The Charles  Ke-jler  129 

CLOVER,  MADGE 

In  Carmel  Bay 87 

CLOVER,  SAMUEL  TRAVERS 

When  Zephyrs  Blow 86 

COOKE,  GRACE  MACGOWAN 

Abalone  Shell,  An 75 

COOLBRITH,  INA 

California   - 29 

When  the  Grass  Shall  Cover  Me 35 

Coyote John  Vance  Cheney  64 

CRANE,  LAUREN  E. 

Song,  The  (From  "  Juanita  ") 3 

Creed  of  Desire,  The Bruce  Porter  1 1 1 

DAGGETT,  ROLLIN  M. 

My  New  Year's  Guests 13 

DAVIES,  MARY  CAROLYN 

California   141 

California  Poppies 141 

DAWSON,  EMMA  FRANCES 

Old  Glory 72 

"  Days  of  'Forty-Nine,  The  " Anonymous  4 

DENNEN,  GRACE  ATHERTON 

Gold-of-Ophir  Roses 90 

DRISCOLL,  MARJORIE  CHARLES 

Song  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  The 124 

DUFF,  JAMES  LEO 

Mater  Dolorosa 125 

Each  in  His  Own  Tongue William  Herbert  Carruth      89 

Ebb  Tide  at  Noon Gelett  Burgess      92 

El  Canelo Bayard  Taylor      23 


Index  149 


PAGE 

El  Dorado:    A  Song Charles  Mills  Gayley  61 

El  Poniente Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  138 

El  Vaquero Lucius  Harwood  Foote  25 

Evening Edward  Pollock  19 

FIELD,  CHARLES  K. 

California  Easter  Mass,  A 112 

Years,  The 112 

FOOTE,  Lucius  HARWOOD 

El  Vaquero 25 

Forest  Couplets Clarence  Urmy  107 

GAYLEY,  CHARLES  MILLS 

El  Dorado  :  A  Song 61 

OILMAN,  CHARLOTTE  PERKINS 

Bed  of  Fleur-de-Lys,  The 80 

Gold-of-Ophir  Roses Grace  Atherton  Dennen  90 

HAGUE,  ELEANOR  (translator) 

O  Blanca  Virgen  a  Tu  Ventana  ! i 

HARDY,  IRENE 

Wedding-Day  Gallop,  A 76 

HARTE,  BRET 

Angelus,  The 36 

Reveille,  The 38 

What  the  Bullet  Sang 40 

Heart's  Return,  The Edwin  Markham  54 

HERON,  HERBERT 

To  William  Vaughn  Moody no 

In  a  Garden Pauline  B.  Barrington  120 

In  an  Alameda  Field Anna  Catherine  Markham  94 

In  Carmel  Bay Madge  Clover  87 

In  Tehachapi David  Starr  Jordan  133 

In  the  Mohave Patrick  Orr  139 

In  the  Moj  ave Charles  F.  Lummis  84 

In  the  States Robert  Louis  Stevenson  44 

In  the  Valley Yone  Noguchi  109 

In  Yosemite  Valley Joaquin  Miller  44 

Indirection Richard  Realf  21 

Iphigenia  in  Aulis Charles  Phillips  97 

IRWIN,  WALLACE 

At  the  Stevenson  Fountain 83 


150  Index 


PAGE 

JACKSON,  HELEN  HUNT 

Ballad  of  the  Gold  Country 8 

January Warren  Cheney  86 

JEFFERS,  ROBINSON 

Let  Us  Go  Home  to  Paradise 114 

JORDAN,  DAVID  STARR 

In  Tehachapi 133 

Joy  of  the  Hills,  The Edwin  Markham 

Just  California John  Steven  McGroarty 

KEELER,  CHARLES 

Bells  of  San  Juan  Capistrano,  The 126 

Child  Heart,  The 129 

Pescadero  Pebbles 128 

LAFLER,  HENRY  ANDERSON 

White  Feet  of  Atthis,  The 66 

Wireless 65 

Last  Days,  The George  Sterling  55 

Let  Us  Go  Home  to  Paradise Robinson  Jeffers  114 

Luck Dare  Stark  124 

LUMMIS,  CHARLES  F. 

In  the  Moj  ave 84 

Lyric Joaquin  Miller  46 

Lyric Joaquin  Miller  47 

Man  with  the  Hoe,  The Edwin  Markham  50 

MARKHAM,  ANNA  CATHERINE 

In  an  Alameda  Field 94 

MARKHAM,  EDWIN 

Heart's  Return,  The 54 

Joy  of  the  Hills,  The 52 

Man  with  the  Hoe,  The 50 

Mater  Dolorosa James  Leo  Duff  125 

MCGROARTY,  JOHN  STEVEN 

Just  California 84 

Midsummer  East  and  West Virna  Woods  130 

MILLER,  JOAQUIN 

In  Yosemite  Valley 44 

Lyric 46 

Lyric 47 

MITCHELL,  RUTH  COMFORT 

El  Poniente 138 

St.  John  of  Nepomuc 134 


Index  151 


PAGE 

MONROE,  HARRIET 

Water  Ouzel,  The 140 

Morning  in  Camp Herbert  Bashf ord  108 

Mountain  Lilac,  The Marguerite  Wilkinson  143 

Mountain,  The Edward  Robeson  Taylor  132 

My  New  Year's  Guests Rollin  M.  Daggett  13 

Neither  Spirit  nor  Bird Mary  Austin  79 

Nero Clark  Ashton  Smith  1 16 

NEWMAN,  FANNY  HODGES 

To  Paleolithic  Man 98 

Night  in  Camp Herbert  Bashf  ord  108 

NOGUCHI,  YONE 

In  the  Valley 109 

O  Blanca  Virgen  a  Tu  Ventana  I 

Eleanor  Hague  (translator)  I 

Old  Glory Emma  Frances  Dawson  72 

On  a  Picture  of  Mount  Shasta  by  Keith 

Edward  Rowland  Sill  47 

ORR,  PATRICK 

In  the  Mohave 139 

PAYSON,  MAHDAH 

To  My  Mountain 100 

Pescadero  Pebbles Charles  Keeler  128 

PHILLIPS,  CHARLES 

Iphigenia  in  Aulis 97 

POLLOCK,  EDWARD 

Evening 19 

PORTER,  BRUCE 

Creed  of  Desire,  The in 

Presidio  Hill John  Vance  Cheney  62 

REALF,  RICHARD 

Indirection 21 

Reveille,  The Bret  Harte  38 

ROBINSON,  GEROID 

Amateurs •  123 

ROGERS,  ROBERT  CAMERON 

Rosary,  The 88 

Rosary,  The Robert  Cameron  Rogers  88 


152  Index 


PAGE 

Santa  Barbara  Beach Ridgeley  Torrence  1 10 

SHEPARD,  ODELL 

Windy  Morning 115 

SHINN,  MILICENT  WASHBURN 

When  Almonds  Bloom 75 

SILL,  EDWARD  ROWLAND 

On  a  Picture  of  Mount  Shasta  by  Keith 47 

SKINNER,  CONSTANCE  LINDSAY 

Song  of  Cradle-Making 95 

SMITH,  CLARK  ASHTON 

Nero 1 16 

Song,  The  (From  "  Juanita  ") Lauren  E.  Crane  3 

Song  of  Cradle-Making Constance  Lindsay  Skinner  95 

Song  of  the  New  Year,  A Gelett  Burgess  92 

Song  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  The 

Marjorie  Charles  Driscoll  124 

St.  John  of  Nepomuc Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  134 

STARK,  DARE 

Luck „ 124 

STERLING,  GEORGE 

Black  Vulture,  The 57 

Last  Days,  The 55 

Voice  of  the  Dove,  The 56 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis 

In  the  States 44 

STODDARD,  CHARLES  WARREN 

Bells  of  San  Gabriel 41 

STORK,  CHARLES  WHARTON 

Yosemite  Strophes 131 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD 

El  Canelo 23 

TAYLOR,  EDWARD  ROBESON 

Mountain,  The 132 

To  My  Mountain Mahdah  Payson  100 

To  Paleolithic  Man Fanny  Hodges  Newman  98 

To  the  Colorado  Desert Madge  Morris  Wagner  81 

To  the  Summer  Sun Marguerite  Wilkinson  142 

To  Virginia Henry  Atkins  71 

To  William  Vaughn  Moody Herbert  Heron  no 

TOMPKINS,  JULIET  WILBUR 

Western  Blood 113 


Index  153 


PAGE 
TORRENCE,    RlDGELEY 

Santa  Barbara  Beach no 

Trail,  The David  Atkins  69 

URMY,  CLARENCE 

As  I  Came  Down  Mount  Tamalpais 104 

California  Song,  A 106 

Forest  Couplets 107 

Voice  of  the  Dove,  The George  Sterling  56 

WAGNER,  MADGE  MORRIS 

To  the  Colorado  Desert 81 

WALKER,  FRANCIS 

"  Cauldron,  The  " 100 

Water  Ouzel,  The Harriet  Monroe  140 

Wedding-Day  Gallop,  A Irene  Hardy  76 

Western  Blood Juliet  Wilbur  Tompkins  113 

What  the  Bullet  Sang Bret  Harte  40 

When  Almonds  Bloom . .  .Milicent  Washburn  Shinn  75 

When  the  Grass  Shall  Cover  Me Ina  Coolbrith  35 

When  Zephyrs  Blow Samuel  Travers  Clover  86 

White  Feet  of  Atthis,  The Henry  Anderson  Lafler  66 

WILKINSON,  MARGUERITE 

Mountain  Lilac,  The 143 

To  the  Summer  Sun 142 

With  the  Trees  :  A  Prose  Poem 144 

WILSON,  MARGARET  ADELAIDE 

Campfire,  The 103 

Wind  of  the  South Jennie  McBride  Butler  101 

Windy  Morning Odell  Shepard  115 

Wireless. Henry  Anderson  Lafler  65 

With  the  Trees  :  A  Prose  Poem. .  .Marguerite  Wilkinson  144 
WOODS,  VIRNA 

Midsummer  East  and  West 130 

Years,  The Charles  K.  Field  112 

Yosemite  Strophes Charles  Wharton  Stork  131 

Youth's  Songs Maxwell  Anderson  122 


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